


A Carefully Crafted Disintegration

by curiousair



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dialogue Heavy, Explicit Sexual Content, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28044810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiousair/pseuds/curiousair
Summary: There’s an explanation for everything Richie does. If he actually retained anything his revolving door of therapists have told him, he would be able to point to an aspect of his childhood or adolescence and say ‘Yeah, that’s it. That’s why, despite having a fairly successful career and being in the public eye long enough for people to write shitty TMZ articles about me, I started making fetish porn at 41 years old.’A little over a year after Eddie almost dies, Richie moves to New York.Richie wants to fall apart and Eddie is just trying to keep himself together.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 54
Kudos: 89





	A Carefully Crafted Disintegration

**Author's Note:**

> hello, this started as a fun idea from [ this thread](https://twitter.com/curiousair/status/1323806545579139072?s=19) and ended up being sad.  
>   
> there are a TON of triggers in this. To be quite honest, I'm gonna say that if you're highly distressed by characters experiencing the difficult aftereffects of trauma and untreated mental illness, I suggest you don't read this. If you'd like to read something happy, check out [At His Fingertips](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26659630). If you wanna stick around for the ride, but you're still wary, pop down to the end notes and check out the detailed triggers and some spoilers to make reading less stressful.

There’s an explanation for everything Richie does. If he actually retained anything his revolving door of therapists have told him, he would be able to point to an aspect of his childhood or adolescence and say ‘Yeah, that’s it. That’s why, despite having a fairly successful career and being in the public eye long enough for people to write shitty TMZ articles about me, I started making fetish porn at 41 years old.’ Aside from dealing with relentless bullying, ADHD that went undiagnosed for way too fucking long, some immense tormenting and a few near death experiences at the hands of an alien clown, and the subsequent sexual and emotional repression, he’s actually had a pretty normal life. Good, even.

It’s so good that he can afford to change his number, pack a single suitcase, and buy a one-way red eye ticket to New York because he’s just a little bit too sad and he would like to contemplate suicide in a different part of the United States. It’s a luxury. 

His new apartment is in Brooklyn, close to Williamsburg, and the last time he was in New York for an extended amount of time, it was ‘05 and he was drunk the entire time which means he has no recollection of any of the boroughs and their layouts. If Richie’s memory serves him correctly, he knows that Eddie lives somewhere in central Queens. And, according to google, there are a dozen neighborhoods in central Queens alone. Still, he’s closer than 2,800 miles away and that’s good enough.

Richie has kept in touch with Eddie the most out of anyone else after leaving Derry. This is inconsequential, he thinks, because his thinly veiled ‘I’m desperately in love with you’ messages to ‘check up’ on Eddie somehow ended up being a months-long thread of texts that he scrolls through nearly every night to convince himself he isn’t going crazy. It’s juvenile, but how else is he supposed to read ‘ _it would be cool if you didn't live so far away'_ and not think _“Oh my god, he likes me.”_

How the _fuck_ , he asks himself as walks the bakery aisle in his local grocery store, was he supposed to look at that message and _not_ drop his entire life and move across the country without telling a single soul about it, including Eddie?

There are reasons for why Richie does things. Yes, he moved to New York to be closer to Eddie. That much is absolutely clear, though he sometimes finds himself trying to rationalize it as a vacation or sabbatical or a fucking mental health break rather than an impulsive decision after what can be classified as mental _breakdown_. The only reason he _didn’t_ throw himself off a freeway overpass into the LA river is because someone honked at him when he slowed down to stop and he got spooked. But, he digresses. There are reasons for why he does things.

But this, he thinks as he walks down the block carrying a two-layer rainbow birthday cake that he’s going to bring back to his new, furnished apartment and record himself sitting on, the _fetish_ _porn_ thing, he hasn’t really figured out why he’s doing it. 

It started with a pathetic 2 AM porn binge, a wikipedia rabbit hole, and a few hundred dollars shelled out to a woman who popped a big red balloon with her thighs and sat on a clown shaped cake per Richie’s request. 

To be absolutely clear, it isn’t sexual. At least, not on Richie's end. When Richie had first signed up for the silly little app that boasted of making young internet personalities thousands and thousands of dollars, it was sheer impulse and curiosity. A need to follow through with an idea that he could throw away with relative ease if he wanted to.

He had signed up, filled out the information, waited a day, and filmed his first video from the chest down— a horrifying angle for his spare tire but a great angle for his hairy, bare ass— unceremoniously plopping himself down on a stool on top of a frosted angel food cake. He posted the video and...nothing happened. Because he had no subscribers. Suddenly it was a little more about validation, and his fucked up psyche knows all about that craving. So, he went to Twitter and made a new account for the sole purpose of indulging in his new hyperfixation. It was only then that he realized that his username, _mrsplosh_ , might be read as Mrs. Plosh instead of the correct reading: Mr. Splosh. It was also when he learned, courtesy of a few polite messages, that _sploshing_ means a few different things.

Here he is, four weeks, a hundred subscribers later, and a few hundred bucks richer and he still gets messages asking him if he’s a man or a woman and making requests for him to, like, masturbate with strawberry jam or rub homemade banana pudding on his nipples every now and then. Knowing that strangers are getting off to his videos makes his dick react with vague interest, almost enough to ignore that he doesn't at all get off on covering his ass and balls with cake. The sensation is unique-- the closest thing he can compare it to is being a kid and sitting in mud, enjoying the wet squish of it, grinning because you knew you weren't supposed to be getting dirty.

This isn't sexual, Richie thinks as he turns away from the camera and lowers himself onto the rainbow cake. This is inner child work.

The frosting immediately melts between his thighs and the fluffy cake crumbles and flattens under his weight, overflowing off the side of the stool. He sits for a minute, wiggling a bit and counting to sixty under his breath. Before he gets up to show the camera the mess he’s made, his phone begins to vibrate from its place on the kitchen counter. 

Tracking green and purple frosting across the tile, he turns his phone over to look at the screen.

“Fuck.”

Yes, Richie had changed his number and no, he hadn’t told anyone he was moving across the country. But, he did take a xanax at LAX and forget about it immediately, only to remember thirty minutes later, _after_ taking a dramamine, and in his irresponsibly drowsy state, he texted Eddie from his new number when he saw something he thought was funny at one of the gift shops.

“Hey!” Richie clears his throat and lowers the nervous pitch in his voice. “Hey, Eds, what’s up?” 

They don’t talk on the phone often. The time difference between California and New York and their clashing schedules always left them relying on long text message conversations picked up whenever they could. Sometimes, Richie would wake up at four in the morning just to text Eddie before he left for work. And Eddie, as much as he complains about the importance of a full eight hours of sleep, would stay up until one or two some nights to make sure Richie gets home safely from whatever bullshit industry party or event he was dragged to.

"Nothing really, I just got home." Eddie sighs through the line, sounding tired. "I have some time to myself so I'd thought I'd call."

"Oh, uh, is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine, I just- I don't know, you sound busy. If you're busy, I can-"

"I'm not busy," Richie looks down at his flaccid dick and glances behind him, at the squished cake. "Just, um, thinking about what I'm going to have for dinner tonight."

"It's early, isn't it?"

Richie cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder and struggles with a new paper towel roll. "Huh?"

“It’s like two in the afternoon there, right?” 

“Um." Richie wipes at the inside of his thighs, figuring he'll get the frosting out of his asscrack in the shower. "Hey, so, I’m in New York, actually.” 

The silence on Eddie's end makes Richie itch. “For work?”

Richie starts cleaning up the smushed cake, tossing most of it in the trash and salvaging the rest to put back in the container in the fridge. He'll eat it later, drunk and without an inkling of shame. “No, um, I moved. To Brooklyn.” 

“You did? When?” 

“Two weeks ago.” 

“Oh," Eddie says. "Were you planning on telling me?”

"Eventually," Richie answers, which technically isn't a lie. He would have gotten the nerve sometime between now and Halloween, probably.

Eddie chuckles, something abrupt and forced. “When, Christmas?” 

Richie leans against the counter, then remembers he's naked and covered in cake. “What a gift, am I right?” 

“I’ve had worse gifts."

Richie can hear the smile in Eddie's voice and it warms him like nothing he has ever felt.

“I wanted to tell you," Richie says. "About me moving. But, I didn’t want to make it into a weird _thing_.” 

“Why would it be weird?” 

Richie pauses, and decides to take the easy route. "Your wife doesn't like me." They met once, when Eddie was leaving Derry. It was brief, but long enough for her to decide Richie was a ‘heathen and a bad influence.’ She's a 'helicopter wife' Eddie had explained, which is a euphemism for 'controlling bitch.'

"My wife doesn't like anyone," Eddie says. "And, for the record, I barely tolerate you either, dickhead. What kind of person moves twenty minutes away from their friend they haven't seen in over a year, with whom they're basically bound together for life by shared trauma, and doesn't tell them? Asshole."

"Sorry," Richie grins, and puts on a shitty Southern belle voice. "How ever will I make it up to you?"

"It'd be nice to see you."

"Missing my sweet face, are you?" 

About 90 percent of the time, Richie feels ridiculously, irrevocably happy talking to Eddie, especially when it's easy like this and he doesn't overthink about saying stupid shit. The other 10 percent is spent ruminating on what it would be like if things were different, if Eddie weren't married, if there was even the slightest possibility that their banter that toes the line between appropriately playful and childishly flirtatious could mean something more. 

"Yeah, I am.”

“Oh.” Richie drops the voice, and once again remembers he’s still standing naked in his kitchen. "Yeah?"

"On second thought,” Eddie says, with a hum. “No."

Richie bites back his smile, as if Eddie can see it and the matching blush creeping warm over his cheeks. "Wanna come over?"

"Now?"

"Yeah. I have nothing to offer you but leftover Chinese food and bad beer, but we could talk shit and laugh until our stomachs hurt. Just like old times?" Richie walks down the hall and into the bathroom to turn on the shower, then steps back into the hall, away from his reflection. "I mean, if that's even possible." 

"Send me your address."

  
  


Predictably, Eddie has concerns about Richie living in a pre-furnished apartment. He inspects the couch for a full sixty seconds, going on about possible bed-bugs and improperly cleaned bodily fluids. 

“I’ve done debauched things on that couch already," Richie says. "I'm positive that it was cleaner before I moved in.” 

"You're disgusting," Eddie mutters, but there's a smile on his face as he finally moves on from the couch, going to the window to check the view. "Do you like it here?"

Richie stays put and enjoys _this_ view, the back of Eddie's compact body, the tanned skin at the nape of his neck, his profile as he watches the street three floors down. "I like the apartment. I'm not sure about the neighborhood."

"What's wrong with the neighborhood?"

"I've been recognized, but not in a good way? Like, the cashier at the grocery store kept giving me a _look_ while I was in line and when I got up there to pay she asked me if I was Richie Tozier and I said 'Reluctantly.' And you know what she said? 'Oh,' like she was disappointed I decided to grace the neighborhood with my presence." 

Eddie laughs, still facing the window.

Richie stares unabashedly at him bathed in the summer evening light, at the way he fills out the slate grey, tailored suit, the lines of it draped over his shoulders and narrow waist.

"I guess the trade-off for being around art and culture is that the hipsters in town apparently know who I am and fucking hate me," Richie adds.

"Price you pay for being problematic." Eddie faces him with a smirk and for a moment, they look at each other from across the living room. They haven’t seen each other since Eddie got out of the hospital, when he could barely walk without assistance. He looks healthy, less tired and drained, but more importantly he looks _good_. He's just _standing there_ , all five feet and nine inches of him, and he looks so fucking good, it's annoying. 

He blinks away from Richie's stare, looking in the direction of the kitchen. "What are the appliances like?"

"Allow me to lead you five feet to the left and into my spacious kitchen."

In the kitchen, Eddie suggests that Richie should get a new toaster oven because the one provided has a damaged electrical cord and will surely burn down the entire building.

"Did you come here to do a safety inspection of the apartment or to hang out with a friend you haven't seen in a year?"

Eddie unplugs the toaster oven and pulls it away from the wall. He turns, wrings his hands, wipes them on the front of his pants, then shoves them in his pockets. "Right, so I was thinking we could go get dinner?"

Up close, Richie can see the slight lift of his eyebrows, the familiar, nervous flit of his dark eyes. 

"Is that-? Can you do that?"

Eddie purses his lips in that indignant way he does. "Have dinner with a friend? Who's stopping me?"

Dinner ends up being a trip to a bar nearby. The place is about the size of a shoebox, everyone squeezed in close at high top tables and the bar top that extends the length of the entire wall. It's dimly lit, dark enough that he can barely make out the features of the server’s face until she's standing right in front of their table. 

They're in the back, tucked into the corner with a non functioning jukebox next to them, and seated so the majority of the bar is behind them. 

Richie tries to take his time with his drink, sipping slowly, though Eddie has known for a while how little class Richie has. Still, he could be a changed man. He isn't, but he could be. Momentarily, as he listens to Eddie talk about work, he thinks about lying. _Yes_ , he'll say, _I have completely abandoned my alcoholic tendencies_. 

Instead, he opens his mouth and says: "I'm not really working right now."

Eddie sips at his drink and it looks natural because he actually _is_ a responsible person. "By choice?"

"I mean, I blocked my manager's and my agent's numbers and I haven't checked my email in a month, so, yeah."

“So, this is you running away then?” 

There’s nothing judgmental about the question, nothing sour in his expression, which Richie might hate even more than the possibility of Eddie being disappointed in him. He isn’t used to this kind of grace being extended to him, and isn’t sure he deserves it.

“Pretty much. Complete with the tantrum.”

“Right, you mentioned the whole-”

“The whole thing that happened, yeah,” Richie says, waving a hand as if he can wave the memory away. “If it’s any comfort to you, I’m marginally better now.”

Granted, any state of being is better than showing up to a meeting drunk, tossing a chair through a window, crying so hard you start throwing up in front of network executives, and hysterically threatening to kill yourself if anyone forced you into a psychiatric facility. 

Eddie smiles, and there’s something bittersweet about it. “Good.”

Somewhere in the bar, a group of people cheer and he and Eddie both turn to look. They’re celebrating something, laughing and hugging, whooping loudly. A couple embraces and kisses and even the bartender coos at them. It’s bright where they are, like a beacon of light is shining directly on them through the ceiling. 

“It’s weird that you’re here.” 

Richie turns back to Eddie and though he doesn’t verbalize it, Eddie senses the question and adds, “It’s a good kind of weird. Surreal, but really good. It feels like,” Eddie sighs, a breathless little laugh coming out with it, “I don't know. I'm happier than I have been in a while. Having someone around that knows me.” 

“Alright, alright.” Richie gives him a light shove, because it’s the only way he’ll be able to handle how stupidly smitten he feels. “Don’t get all sentimental on me." 

Eddie shoves back, curling his fingers around Richie's bicep. "Fuck you, bro." Because right, that's what they are. Just bros. He rests his elbow on the table and his chin on his knuckles. "Are you here for good?" 

"Not sure." Richie shrugs. “I'm doing a short term lease thing right now." 

“Oh, okay.” Eddie nods and says, behind his glass, "Just wondering how long I have you for." 

"I'll stay until you get annoyed with me."

"I'm always annoyed with you."

"Shit, guess I better go then." Richie finishes off his drink and stands up. "I'll call you when I land in LA."

Eddie laughs and grabs Richie's wrist, pulling him back down onto his chair. The sudden motion makes Eddie wobble in his seat, nearly falling out of it, and he drops Richie's wrist, cursing under his breath and scooting his chair over to get it out of the apparent dip in the floor. It's still wobbly, but the adjustment does bring them closer, just about shoulder to shoulder.

"It isn't the floor," Richie points out, his elbow bumping Eddie's. "It has an uneven leg."

"I see that _now_ ," Eddie says, rocking a bit to test if it's still unsteady. It is, which causes all those lovely frown lines to crease up on Eddie's forehead. "I'm going to break this chair into tiny fucking pieces, take it back to my house, and use it as firewood because that's all it's good for. Don't they know it can actually be dangerous to fill a bar with chairs like this? What if I fell backwards and cracked my head open? Lawsuit waiting to happen."

"You're so fun to be around," Richie says.

Eddie rolls his eyes, but his shoulders relax. "And you're a real blast."

"Let me see." Richie folds a napkin into a tight square and motions for Eddie to get up, then kneels on the dirty floor. He sticks the napkin under the chair leg, taps it with his palm, and when he looks up to tell Eddie to sit, he loses his breath a little. Here he is, on one knee with Eddie standing above him—mimicking a proposal, a prayer, or something much more depraved— and when they lock eyes, his mouth starts to fucking water on cue. After a long second, Eddie sits and Richie somehow manages to say something that isn’t inappropriate and/or out of line. "Better?" 

"Better,” Eddie mumbles, and downs the rest of his drink.

Richie stands up, his knees cracking, and settles into his seat again. With nothing left to drink, he twiddles his thumbs and tries not to look as lovesick as he feels.

"I'm glad you're here, Rich.” Eddie’s voice is a gentle caress, fanning over Richie’s cheek. "I mean that." 

“Me too,” Richie says, and when he touches his knee to Eddie’s, Eddie doesn’t pull away. Richie takes a shaky breath and silently rejoices in the small point of contact. “I’m really glad I’m here.”

Parked outside Richie's apartment building, Eddie turns the engine off but leaves the radio on. Richie isn't ready to say goodnight— some leftover attachment issue from Eddie almost dying in his arms, he's sure—and it doesn't seem like Eddie is either. He takes his hands off the wheel and fiddles with the radio dial, landing on a classic rock station before relaxing into his seat and wiping his hands over his thighs.

The night isn't completely quiet drifting in through the open driver's side window— there are people out tonight, friends laughing, couples walking their dogs, music playing from someone's apartment a few floors up. Eddie seems to be the center of it all, the only thing unmoving.

And Richie wonders, because he’s routinely cruel to himself, if Myra is still awake too, waiting for Eddie to come home.

"Tired?" Eddie asks, stifling his own yawn seconds after Richie finishes his.

Richie drops his hands from his eyes. "Feels like I've been jet lagged for two weeks."

"Doesn't look it," Eddie says easily. "You look good. In general."

Richie's face goes hot and he shrugs, looking straight ahead through the windshield. "You're bullshitting me but, alright, I'll take it."

"I'm serious." Eddie's voice is hushed in the trapped air of the car. "You look really good."

Richie turns and watches Eddie reach over, in slow motion it seems, and brush a thumb over his jawline.

"You can't just-" Richie shivers and his breath hitches as Eddie presses his thumb a bit harder, more insistent along his cheek. "Don't fuck with me, man." 

"I'm not." Eddie's eyes are wide and as intense as they always are, starting a fire the way only he knows how. He unbuckles his seat belt and shifts in his seat, sliding his hand behind Richie's neck. Richie brings his hand to Eddie's forearm and pauses there, unsure if he wants to shrug him off or force him to stay.

"Please don't-"

"I'm not," Eddie repeats, even quieter than before, before leaning in, all the way over the center console, and kissing him. It’s soft at first, waiting for Richie’s slack mouth to respond. The initial shock passes quickly to make space for desire, the pressing need to get all he can before it's snatched away from him. Disbelief lingers and he’s shaking with it, his nails digging into Eddie’s wrist in attempts to steady himself. He focuses on the smooth press and slide of their lips, the feel of Eddie gripping his neck, cupping the curve of his skull, fingers tangling in his hair. Then, there's a hand on his knee and he flinches, gasping into the kiss. Eddie keeps him close, works a hand up higher, kneading at Richie's thigh, searching until he cups his hand around Richie's dick through layers of denim and cloth. 

Richie's heart jumps into his throat and he pulls back, separating their lips with a loud, obscene smack. "Eddie, um-" 

"It's okay,” Eddie whispers, and thank fucking Christ because Richie is utterly lost. He holds Richie in place, a firm pressure on the back of his head. “I've done this before." 

"Cheated on your wife?" Richie blurts out, and doesn’t feel the least bit satisfied when Eddie’s wet lips curl into a smile.

"Been with a man." 

"Cheated on your wife with a man," Richie corrects. 

"It's okay." Eddie crawls one hand up Richie's thigh again, massages his scalp with the other. "Unless you don't think so." 

Richie kisses him, hungry and desperate, cradling his face, stroking the rough stubble and the scar on his cheek, dipping his thumbs into his dimples and letting himself moan around Eddie’s tongue. The want he’s been compressing inside himself expands and cracks him open and he whimpers, the hugeness of his unsatiated want nearly bringing him to the verge of tears, and Eddie inhales it without a question, with the edge and urgency of someone who has never known a life without restraint.

Panting, Eddie rests his forehead to Richie's, thumbing over his fly. "Do you have a condom?" 

"You overestimate how much I'm getting laid if you think I keep condoms on hand." 

Eddie doesn’t laugh, which is equal parts terrifying and sexy. "Upstairs?" 

Before Richie can ask if Eddie is sure, Eddie takes his hand and guides it into his lap. Richie grasps clumsily until Eddie’s hard-on is under his palm, straining through Eddie’s slacks.

The moment the apartment door is closed, Eddie is on him, stretching up onto his toes, throwing one arm around Richie’s neck and palming him through his jeans. Richie hunches his shoulders and meets Eddie in the middle, catching his lips in a messy kiss. It’s been too long since he’s kissed someone he’s actually _wanted_ to kiss, and even longer since he’s been kissed with this much fervor. It’s even better because it’s Eddie— Richie has fantasized about this and after each time, he wallows in shame and embarrassment because no way would it ever happen and if it did, it couldn’t possibly be as good as anything he conjures up in his mind. But, it’s happening, and it's mind blowing and that in itself makes him want to run because surely the karmic balance is off. If he’s here, with everything he’s ever wanted in his hands, then what awful fucking thing is lurking around the corner?

“Bed?” Eddie says and doesn’t wait for Richie to lead the way. Before they’re even seated, he’s reaching for the hem of Richie’s shirt, pulling his lips away from Richie’s neck to tug the shirt over his head.

“Oh,” Richie breathes, slapping a hand to his face to keep his glasses from sliding off. Eddie shrugs off his suit jacket and makes quick work of his button down, chuckling when he belatedly remembers to take off his tie. He gets his hands back on Richie quickly, groping at his pecs, spreading over his ribs, and following the happy trail on his belly down to his waistband.

Richie’s pulse races as Eddie’s nimble fingers undo his fly and cup him through his damp boxers. If Richie had any qualms about his body, he wouldn't be showing his naked ass to strangers online. But, this is Eddie. This is the man he is painfully and unfortunately in love with. The man who hasn't seen him shirtless since they were kids and they all had the same bony frames and bird chests. The man who is apparently fucking built like a European soccer player and has neglected to tell anyone about it. So, maybe, Richie’s palms are a little sweaty.

Eddie hooks his leg over Richie’s and ducks his head to kiss Richie’s chest, mouthing over his nipples and the thick hair along his sternum. At the same time, he finally slips a hand into Richie’s boxers to grab him fully, whispering something filthy about how ‘fucking big’ his dick is, which Richie barely has the brain power to process.

“Oh, _shit_.” Richie's toes curl and he reaches blindly for Eddie’s thigh, squeezing the tight muscle in his hand, and works his way up until he’s at Eddie’s belt buckle. Eddie leans back only far enough to unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly, opening his legs to let Richie have his way. He groans when Richie wraps a tentative hand around him, his hips jerking when Richie thumbs at the head of his dick, spreading the steadily dripping pre-cum.

Richie is awestruck, his fist working over Eddie’s dick clumsily. "Jesus christ, you're leaking." 

"It's because of you,” Eddie says, his voice strained, and strokes his hand up Richie’s dick, making him whine. “I get like this just thinking about you, hearing your voice." 

"Yeah?" 

"I want you-" Eddie moans and throws his head back, speaks directly to the ceiling. "I want you so fucking much. I've always wanted you." 

Richie hears the words, but they don't settle anywhere. They float around in his head, swirling with the rest of his jumbled thoughts. All he can see is Eddie’s open mouth, the line of his throat, his heaving chest and the jagged scar, the dark hair gathered at the base of his dick. "This is a dream. You're a fucking dream." 

Eddie hisses, dragging his thumb up the side of Richie's dick. “Condom?” 

“Um.” Richie jumps up, crossing the room to search through his sparse dresser drawer. “Yeah, um, what are we- are you? Or I am?” 

“I’m going to give you a blowjob,” Eddie says. Not ‘can I’ or ‘will you let me’ or ‘I want to.’ _I’m going to_ , _and it’s final_. 

“You’re-” Richie freezes at the dresser, holding the condom, then spins around to face him. “Okay.” 

Richie returns to the edge of the bed with his legs spread and Eddie kneels, turning the condom over in his hand. 

"This one is lubricated." 

"Yeah? I mean, I think?” Richie leans back on his palms, staring down his chest at the pensive expression on Eddie’s face. “What's the question?" 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. "Do you have a different one?" 

It takes a second, but Richie collects his thoughts enough to make a bad joke. "Do I look like someone who has a variety pack of condoms? I've been buying the same brand since 98." 

"They taste _bad_ ," Eddie responds, humorlessly. "Like crushed up aspirin." 

"It's all I have,” Richie says, barely resisting his urge to call Eddie high maintenance. If he wants this to go well, he might have to shut the fuck up for once in his life.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time." 

"Next time," Richie repeats. 

"Yeah.” Eddie unwraps the condom and pauses. "Actually, do you have lube?" 

Richie nods, still stuck on ‘next time.’ _Next time, next time, next-_

"Where?" 

"Uh, I hate you for making me think right now. It's-" Richie waves vaguely to the dresser. "I think." 

Eddie kisses Richie’s knees as he gets up, and Richie spends the few seconds apart swooning about it. 

Richie leans back on his forearms when Eddie settles onto the floor again. Eddie spreads lube over Richie's dick, then rolls the condom on and does the best he can to wipe the lube off the outside. He's kind of clinical about it, but the almost insane level of focus is another thing that Richie finds annoyingly sexy. Eddie is less clinical when he parts his lips around the head of Richie’s dick and sucks him down completely, digging his fingers into Richie's thighs. The contact is indirect but it's still overwhelming, the pressure of his tongue, the tight heat of his mouth, the wet slip of the latex, the hum that vibrates through his palate and shoots through Richie like a fucking rocket. The second Eddie opens his eyes and looks up, Richie loses it. He grips the sheets, his thighs trembling, and squeezes his eyes shut. And it’s a shame, really, all this build up for a minute long blowjob. "Oh, shit, baby I'm gonna-" 

_Baby_ , he thinks as he shudders through his orgasm. How fucking _embarrassing_.

But, Eddie is getting up and kissing him, licking into his mouth, tasting like latex, and pushing him flat on his back to climb on top of him. He tangles his fingers in Richie’s hair and pulls, just once, exposing Richie’s neck to make room for the bruise he sucks into the heated skin. Straddling his thighs, Eddie guides Richie’s hand around his dick and squeezes, bucking his hips into the fist. His mouth opens around one long, drawn-out moan and he keeps his half-lidded eyes hazily focused on Richie’s as he comes, making a mess of both of them. Then he sits back on Richie’s thighs, takes a deep breath, and starts laughing. 

Richie lets himself laugh too, because Eddie is on top of him and everything is still fuzzy around the edges and this is the rush of oxytocin he’s been chasing for decades. Eddie slumps over and kisses him, slow and sweet, and finally climbs off of him to collect his clothes. They clean up separately and get dressed in silence, something heavy settling in the room around them. Eddie kisses him goodnight at the door though, promising to call him soon, and that lightens things significantly.

A few things happen after Eddie leaves. First, Richie cries. Not a lot, just a quick cry as he forces himself to acknowledge and promptly bury the negative feelings that threaten to overshadow the unbridled joy he feels. Yes, Eddie is married. To a woman. Yes, the knowledge that Eddie will likely never be his makes him want to die. Yes, he feels a little desperate and easy. But, Eddie _wants_ him. 

The second thing Richie does is jack off, bringing himself to the edge three times before coming with the thought of Eddie’s mouth on him, bare, with no barrier in between. 

The third thing Richie does is eat the leftover rainbow cake in his fridge and do a self-loathing scroll session on Twitter. He's not 'active' on his public account, but he lurks because he's a masochist. There isn’t much tonight, except for the usual stuff trashing his comedy. Then, he strikes gold. A tweet written by someone with twelve followers, accusing him of ‘being one of those misogynists who’s actually a big faggot.’ They were sweet enough to censor the word faggot, which makes Richie laugh at least. He likes the tweet, then opens up his neverending text thread with Eddie.

_im going to do something stupid but id thought id tell you first_

_I’m flattered. What is it?_

_im gay_

_Congrats. Me too._

_good_

_Good? That’s it? Lackluster._

_i mean how simultaneously sexy and heart warming is this moment? coming out to each other over text after youve had my dick in your mouth. beautiful. im so touched by your ability to trust me with such delicate personal information after you used my hand to get off_

_Lol when can I see you again?_

_whenever you want_

Richie takes a bite of cake and opens up Twitter, typing with one hand.

 **Richie Tozier** @rtrashmouth

 _hey everyone, I'm gay and also a big fat liar. Goodnight_.

  
  


When they were younger, Eddie would work himself into a panic attack at the mere idea of doing something he wasn't supposed to do, especially if it involved careless risks that could get him hurt.

At 41, it seems that he's a calculated risk taker. 

Some days, they meet during Eddie’s lunch break. Other days, Eddie leaves work early to spend the afternoon in Richie’s bed. Sometimes he simply takes days off and lies about being at the office. He often shuts his phone off and says it’s dead, and has told Myra a handful of times that he’s heading to Jersey for work with a hotel booked for the night, only to shack up at Richie's place twenty-two minutes from home, spending the better part of eight hours with his lips, fingers, or dick on or inside Richie’s body. Years of lying have made Eddie an expert at cheating and Richie an expert at being the dirty little secret. 

Richie takes what he can get, keeping his questions to himself because he can't handle the idea that there have been other men, that he isn't the first. That Eddie has snuck around, sucking and fucking someone else before he remembered Richie existed. Before Richie realized who he had been fantasizing about while a stranger pushed his face into a mattress. Richie keeps quiet and behaves, letting his doubts and fears fade into the background when Eddie touches him. Eddie cradles Richie's head in his hands and says 'it's okay.' Eddie kisses him in the dark privacy of his car and whispers on the phone in the middle of the night, talking Richie into a frenzied state of arousal, then flipping a switch to lull him to sleep right after, all within the perfectly constructed confines of their affair. Eddie is careful. The risks—getting caught, getting hurt, ruining their friendship—remain, but are dulled by the feeling of Eddie on top of him, keening in his ear, claiming that no one else has taken him as well as Richie does. 

In bed, Eddie is both exactly and nothing like Richie's fantasies. He _is_ meticulous and attentive, but he isn’t gentle, nor is he shy or boring. He holds Richie down, kisses him until he's incoherent and dizzy, fucks hard and fast when Richie asks and takes his time when he knows Richie needs it. They do it in missionary most of the time because Eddie likes to see Richie’s face, he says— which Richie will think about for the rest of his life— and he likes to kiss, sometimes staying still inside of Richie and kissing him until he begs for more. Afterwards, their pillowtalk is senseless, much like most of their conversations, but Richie whiteknuckles each moment like sand slipping through his fingers. 

Maybe the most wonderful thing about Eddie, Richie thinks, is that he didn't even flinch when Richie started full on sobbing after Eddie pulled out that first time. Eddie had held him, kissing his tear-streaked cheeks to calm him down, then rolled him over and fucked him again.

It's sweet, if Richie doesn't think about it too hard.

That’s how he’s gotten this far, by not thinking. If he can continue allowing thoughts to breeze by without focusing on them, he can confidently say that things are good. Perfect, even.

Eddie's alarm rings for the third time. He reaches out from under Richie's comforter and snatches his phone from the bedside table, groaning. He squints at the screen, then tosses the phone aside and curls back into Richie's side. It's seven AM, and Richie has been awake for an hour already, lying perfectly still to let Eddie sleep. Like most days this past month, he has no plans other than to spend time with Eddie or to wait for Eddie to leave work. Ideally, he'd stay here 24/7 with Eddie under his arm.

"Fuck work." Eddie frowns, squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and mutters into Richie's chest. "Fuck everyone."

"I agree."

Maybe things are easier because they know each other and because they’ve not only been physically close before as rowdy kids who were far too touchy, they’ve also seen each other grow into gangly, awkward teenagers, and they’ve been to hell and back together twice. 

"Myra is making me meet her for lunch today."

Maybe this is easy because they can talk about Myra and Richie understands, without being told, that the issue is that her personality bears a striking resemblance to Sonia Kaspbrak. Maybe this allows Eddie to skip a few steps and fall into something more comfortable and less formal, opening up more than he would with anyone else. Maybe this works because he trusts Richie with his secrets, knowing how well Richie has held onto them before.

"Are you gonna go?" Richie asks.

"Wish I didn't have to."

Eddie begins to snore and Richie holds him, savoring the moment. Twenty minutes later, the alarm sounds again Eddie sits up this time, sighing. "I'm gonna be late."

"Probably," Richie says. "Want coffee?"

"Please."

Sometimes, Richie catches himself floating a few inches off the floor and has to ground himself forcefully, settling for the butterflies in his stomach and the full body blush. He'll allow himself that, but won't let himself ignore reality for too long. This is what it is and nothing else.

Eddie accepts the coffee graciously when Richie returns, taking a sip as Richie crawls back under the covers.

"Thank you." Eddie kisses him softly over the steaming mug and settles back into the plush pillows, the ones Richie bought and carried five blocks specifically for Eddie. "I don't want to leave." 

"I won't make you." 

Eddie smiles and looks down at his phone, scrolling his email inbox. Out of habit, Richie picks up his phone and opens Twitter. 

People usually stop talking about him when a more important celebrity does or says something that everyone pretends to be outraged by, so he's used to constantly being yesterday's news. But today, he's met with dozens of notifications. 

Someone decided, because they have nothing better to do, to post a picture of Richie and Eddie at the bar that first night. It was taken sneakily and at a bad angle, meaning Eddie's face isn't visible in the photo. It’s just the back of his head and a bit of his profile, but he’s clearly leaning in close to Richie, too close to be platonic. In the dim light, there's a slight glare on Richie's glasses and behind them there's surely an awed look in his eyes that matches his smile. In retrospect, he can see how fucking gone he was, can see that it was probably clear to everyone, including Eddie, that he would have done absolutely anything to keep Eddie close. 

To call this a scandal would mean assigning some sort of importance to himself, as if doing anything outside of his very skewed version of normal could be seen as disruptive enough to warrant the label. Despite this, TMZ and a few other shitty gossip blogs have decided it's important enough to talk about.

"What is that?"

Eddie stares down at Richie's phone, his eyes scanning the bold headline.

"It's us."

"Us," Eddie mutters, touching the mug to his lips. His face goes blank, something unreadable glazing over his eyes.

Myra knows Richie is in town, but Eddie claims she doesn't know anything beyond them meeting for lunch once or twice. Having a picture of them together isn't necessarily incriminating, but the context surrounding it —' _newly out comedian visits mystery man in new york'_ — has implications that are anything but innocent. Give it a few days and someone with nothing better to do will have Eddie’s full name and work address.

"It's fine. It's nothing. None of this shit actually holds any weight." 

Eddie stays frozen, looking at the blurry picture. Richie darkens the screen, and takes the mug from Eddie’s hands, setting it aside. “It’s fine,” he repeats and Eddie stares, going pale. “It’s fine. I promise.” Richie kisses him, no hiding that it’s nothing more than a plea for Eddie to be okay. He rolls on top of him, coaxing Eddie’s mouth open with his tongue and pulling away from his unresponsive mouth to kiss his neck instead. Eddie whimpers, forcing his nails into Richie’s biceps before relenting, melting under Richie’s weight. “It’s fine,” Richie says again, right against Eddie’s ear and tilts his head up to look at Eddie’s face, at his unfocused gaze. It stings, but Richie doesn’t stop—he can’t stop. If he does, this is over. And if this is over, he’s liable to do anything. 

He rucks up Eddie’s t-shirt and kisses his collarbone and chest, a rapid pulse under his lips. He opens Eddie’s legs with his knee, pressing a thigh between them and grinding down in search of a reaction. A moan, a shout, a demand. Anything. _Please_ , Richie thinks, _give me anything._

Suddenly, Eddie is gripping Richie’s shoulders and pushing, forcing him lower until he’s at Eddie’s hips, mouthing at the skin stretched over the bone. He hesitates with his fingers at Eddie’s waistband and glances up to look at him, sickness rising in his stomach when Eddie refuses to meet his gaze. “Eddie,” he chokes out, and Eddie squeezes his shoulder hard enough to make the muscles spasm in response. Richie winces, tugging Eddie’s boxers down his legs, kissing at his thighs briefly before Eddie gets a hand in his hair. He pulls, his knuckles rough against Richie’s scalp, and forces his head up, then wraps a hand around himself and taps his dick against Richie’s lips. There’s only about a second for Richie to realize what’s happening, so he yelps when Eddie cups the back of his head, shoves him down, and thrusts into his mouth. Richie’s teeth scrape on the sensitive skin and he gags a bit before he gains some composure, fisting the sheets and taking a deep breath to adjust to Eddie’s relentless pace. Above him, Eddie says his name, over and over until it’s a breathy moan resembling a word. Richie keens, affection washing over him, and with tears in his eyes, a burn in his throat, and an ache in his jaw, he reaches for Eddie’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

  
  


Happiness sometimes feels like your skin is too tight and you’re on the verge of splitting open and spewing blood and viscera all over the walls. Richie is self aware enough to know that it isn’t like this for everyone, but delusional enough to feel sorry for them. Everyone should be able to experience this. Next to coke, there’s nothing quite like feeling like you’re going to explode if you sit still for longer than a millisecond. 

Fresh out of the shower, electricity coursing through his blood, Richie walks circles around the couch and calls Mike for the first time in over a month.

"Hey, it's good to hear from you," Mike says, as warm as ever. "How are you?"

Richie scrubs a towel over his wet hair and stops in front of his open window, letting the evening air cool his naked, dripping skin. About twenty minutes ago, he was filming and uploading a video of himself squishing a strawberry cheesecake with his thighs. "I'm in New York." 

"I heard.” Mike pauses, and continues hesitantly. “What are you doing there?" 

"Oh, just making sure I really am ass over tits in love with my childhood friend.” Richie drops the towel on the floor and starts pacing again, tracking wet footprints behind him. An hour ago, he was getting rug burns on his back, and Eddie was between his legs, sinking into him, trailing kisses up his calves, grinning, and babbling about how ‘fucking good’ Richie felt. He looked especially beautiful, his eyes dark and pupils dilated like a shark, his face red, and mouth open around a moan. “Turns out I am." 

"Right." 

An hour and fifteen minutes ago, Eddie took his tie off and draped it over the arm of the couch. It’s still here, left hastily as he rushed out earlier, giggling into their three goodbye kisses. "I'm sleeping with him."

"How's that?" Mike asks, and it's genuine, open and honest. Richie fucking hates it.

"Great. Terrifying. A little bit addicting.” Richie picks up Eddie's tie and winds it around his neck. He makes a loose knot and pulls, the fabric catching on his damp skin. “Like auto erotic asphyxiation." 

"You've got the most active, colorful imagination of anyone I've ever met." There’s laughter in Mike’s voice, which is a delight to hear. Richie can’t think of a single person who deserves laughter and happiness more than Mike Hanlon. 

"Thanks. I appreciate that." 

"But really, Richie,” Mike says, sobering quickly. "How are you?” 

“Have you ever done that?” Richie pulls the knot a little tighter, lifts his arm up behind his head. The new pressure on his adam’s apple sends a shiver up his spine. “Put a belt or tie really tight around your neck while jacking off?” 

Mike chuckles, which is really just throwing Richie a bone. “I have not.” 

“I think everyone should try it at least once.” 

“Richie…” 

“You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced everything going black right as you’re about to come.” 

“Alright, alright-” 

“I know we’ve all been on the verge of death, but this is different, I swear. Promise me you’ll try it. Just once.” 

“Hey-” 

“Promise?” 

“Rich...I’m serious. How are you?” 

Richie stops pacing and steps into the hallway, shutting himself into the bathroom. He turns to his reflection-- a flaccid dick, an expanse of pale skin covered in hair and weird bruises, damp hair with a receding hairline, Eddie's tie wrapped around his neck-- and laughs.

"You can always talk to me if you aren't doing alright."

Three hours ago, while waiting for Eddie to leave work, Richie went from looking at couple retreats in Sedona, to browsing engagement rings and promptly scolding himself for it, then researching the least complicated way to commit suicide. Decades after their first appearance, these mental gymnastics are still fairly impressive.

"I've been worse," Richie says finally, taking a seat on the bathroom floor under the towel rack. "Not sure I've been better than this. Haven't decided. I'll get back to you on that." 

"I'll be waiting for that update. Take care of yourself, Richie.”

Richie loops the loose end of Eddie's tie over the bar, between the towels, and pulls the slack with his left hand. "Will do!" He hangs up the phone, fists his dick with his right hand, and pulls the tie down with his left, tightening it around his neck and letting his vision go unfocused.

  
  


Eddie looks good on his knees and Richie knows that he's aware of it. It's difficult not to wonder how many men he's sucked off just like this, forcing their knees apart, licking over a _mildly flavored_ condom, looking up from under his lashes and hollowing his cheeks around their cock while his wife calls him for the sixth time in a row. He keeps his focus on Richie, swallowing him down to the hilt, his throat bobbing and restricting, then pulls off with a gasp. 

Richie wipes a stray tear from Eddie's eye. "Okay?"

"I like it," Eddie rasps, and takes Richie into his mouth again. There's an excited glint in his eye, something devilish and knowing when Richie starts to come undone. His phone begins to vibrate incessantly on the coffee table and he ignores it, wraps his lips around the head of Richie's dick and sucks.

The condom nearly slips off when Richie comes. Eddie sits back and immediately looks at his phone, frantically typing as Richie ties off the condom and uses a tissue to clean himself up.

"She says she knows I'm not at the office." 

Richie gets up to toss the condom, leaving Eddie kneeling in front of the couch. His post-orgasm bliss is kind of shot already, so he gives up on the idea of cuddling and picks up his phone too. "Gonna call her back?"

Eddie frowns, lifting his glare from the screen. "No."

Richie sits on the couch, jumping when Eddie practically throws his phone across the coffee table. "You okay?"

Eddie slumps a bit, then leans forward, hiding his face in Richie's inner thigh. "No."

"Are you hungry?" Richie asks, stroking his hand over Eddie’s hair.

This morning, someone sent Richie a 70 dollar tip for whistling in a video, which Richie hadn't even realized was a kink. The money is a nice gesture— he definitely doesn't need it, so he might as well redistribute it.

Eddie nods, twisting his fingers with Richie's.

“Should I order?”

Eddie nods again, keeping his face hidden.

“Thai?”

Eddie shakes his head.

“Sushi?” Richie asks, knowing it’ll get a bigger reaction. Eddie doesn’t look at him, but he does pinch his thigh, which is a win in Richie’s book.

They order Italian food and eat standing up at the counter because Richie's tiny kitchen table is piled with books that he impulse bought in Flatbush yesterday. Eddie holds back as long as he can, visibly tense as if the words are fighting their way out of him, but eventually gives in and starts ranting about his wife.

There are a few reasons why Richie doesn’t particularly like it when Eddie brings up Myra. One, he wants to keep this illusion alive and well. He can’t really go to bed fantasizing about them living in a gay New York City romantic comedy cinematic universe if every time he turns his head, he's reminded that he's the mistress.

“She pretends she doesn’t understand why I'm upset. When she _isn’t_ pretending she doesn’t understand, she’s pretending she’s doing it all because she _cares_. If she cared, she'd let me get a word in edgewise.”

“That’s shitty,” Richie says, adding crushed pepper flakes to his pasta. Too much, but it's the least painful thing he's done today.

Eddie stabs at his meal with his fork. “I never know what to fucking say to her anymore. I feel like I’ve said it all.”

Richie makes a vague noise, because he never knows what to say either. It brings him to his second point, which is that his first instinct is always to say " _dump the bitch then if she's so awful_." Eddie complains about _everything_ she does, ranting at length about the way she cooks, the way she touches him, the way she signs off her text messages with her full name and a bible quote. 

"All she does is talk. She never listens." Eddie groans, puts an entire meatball in his mouth, and chews. "Being around her makes me want to pull my fucking hair out by the root." 

"Well," Richie mumbles, staring at his food, "why did you marry her if she's such a god awful person?"

He's asked this before, in so many words, usually cloaked in a joking tone, when they're already ribbing on each other. Never like this, with nothing to hide behind.

"She isn't _god awful_ ," Eddie snaps, and that angry vein in his neck appears. He attempts to pick up a bite of pasta and it keeps slipping off his fork. “ _Shit-_ I mean, she is sometimes. But, I do...feel bad, I think. For her. She's isn't the _worst_ person, she's just...fucked up most of the time. She's been through a lot."

“Yeah, I bet.” Richie grits his teeth and tries to smile, getting hot behind his ears. 

Fuck her. The two of them have been through a lot too. In fact, Eddie had probably been through more by the time he was ten years old than Myra and Richie have experienced in their entire lives. The sympathy etched into his features, softening his doe eyes, is a waste. He should save it for himself and, if there's any left over, he could spill it directly into Richie like feeding a baby bird. He should be giving _Richie_ the metaphorical pat on the head and saying _'Oh, you poor thing. Can't help but act out. You've been through so much.'_

The thing is—and this is point number three—Richie is a terribly jealous person, and he hasn’t ever had a handle on it. Even if Eddie weren’t married, it isn't as if he would have fallen into Richie's arms last year and let himself be carried into the sunset. There are too many factors working against them. The lovely little pit of self-hate that resides in Richie’s head, Eddie’s fear of straying from the status quo, the fact that they’ve had to get to know each other all over again, the fact that even if Pennywise hadn’t fucked them up completely they’d probably still be this way, struggling to hold on to the bond they had when they were kids. It never could have been them and it never will be. 

Still, every time he remembers that Myra got to him first, it makes him want to open a vein.

Eddie carries on and Richie nods, picking at the frayed skin of his cuticle. He keeps going when he gets to the edge, peeling a thin, translucent sliver of skin off his index finger, and blood bubbles to the surface. 

This is what jealousy does to him. He always ends up ripping himself apart, piece by piece, starting with his fingernails. 

“Hey, can I just-" Richie starts and stops, letting an abrupt huff of a laugh escape him. He glances at his bloody fingers, then up at Eddie's harsh expression. "Um, is it cool if we don’t talk about your wife anymore?”

Eddie blinks, and his brow unfurrows. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

"Okay." Eddie bristles, making no attempt to hide it. “I didn’t know it was that unbearable for you.”

“Yeah," Richie says, and laughs again, discomfort crawling up his arms and legs. "I kind of fucking hate it.”

“Well, sorry," Eddie mutters, taking another bite of his pasta.

"Well," Richie scoffs, “it doesn’t sound like it.”

“You know…" Eddie sets his chopsticks down and levels an icy look at Richie. "Friends should be able to talk to each other about this stuff. Listening to each other vent, moral support...that's just, you know, normal shit good friends do.”

“Is that what we are?” Richie asks, averting his gaze. Blood trickles over his knuckle, filling the fine lines. "Good friends?"

“What else would we be?” 

The thing about getting your feelings hurt by the love of your life is it kind of feels like getting hit in the stomach. The pain spreads gradually from his core until his face hurts, an ache at the hinge of his jaw where he's clamping his mouth shut. He laughs a bit through his teeth, because he figures he was born with all his wires fucked up, and stares at his plate, his appetite gone with any naive hopefulness he had left.

Next to him, Eddie shifts from one foot to the other and crawls his fingers over the counter. He taps Richie's wrist, scratching a thumbnail over his pulse, and steps in closer when Richie doesn't respond. Wordlessly, he snakes his arms around Richie’s waist, spreading his fingers over Richie's belly, and kisses between his shoulder blades. He rests his head there and exhales when Richie cups a hand over his, smearing blood.

This isn’t an apology, this is groveling. 

"You should call her back."

Eddie kisses the back of Richie's neck three times, waiting for Richie to turn in the embrace. When Richie doesn't, he slips away and steps out of the kitchen, silently puts on his shoes, and leaves Richie alone in the apartment.

  
  
  


It's midnight when Richie calls Bill. He's laughing before Bill even picks up, pouring another glass of whiskey, because he can't for the life of him remember what time zone Bill lives in.

"Hey, how's everything?" 

Richie woke up at 5 PM today and isn't sure if he started drinking or crying first.

"Uhhh." Richie takes a drink, steps back and slips on a melted piece of ice. "Oops. Um, well, I'm drunk right now. So, pretty good." 

"I saw something a few days ago," Bill starts, as plain as ever. It's infuriating. "A picture of you and Eddie." 

There have been two more since the first one. Not high definition, paparazzi level photos, just one semi-blurred picture of Richie and Eddie from behind as they waited in line at a coffee shop and another of them standing on the subway platform, beaming at each other. Richie has them downloaded to his phone, and shamelessly looks at them when Eddie isn't around.

"Yeah, right." Richie's stomach growls and he opens his fridge to peer at a leftover takeout, beer, and a dozen cupcakes. "I'm in New York." 

"I know," Bill says. "How is it?" 

"Kind of hate it, not gonna lie. It's humid and it stinks and the people are mean to me." Richie opens his freezer and finds a bag of pre-made stir fry. "But, you know why I'm here." 

Bill has probably known since they were kids, when Richie would do anything in his power to make Eddie laugh. 

"The headlines imply that you and Eddie are dating...that's funny, right?" 

"Hilarious," Richie mumbles, and rips open the bag of stir fry, spilling vegetables all over the stove and counter. "We are not dating." 

"Right, because he's married and that would be wrong."

"Totally." 

"You're sleeping with him though." 

Richie does laugh now, tips the rest of his drink back, and immediately pours another. "Oh, you know this for a fact?" 

"I might have heard something from Mike,” Bill says, and then, with a sigh, “Richie, he's m-married. To a woman.”

"Yeah,” Richie responds, sweeping the frozen vegetables into a little pile. He leaves them there and leans against the counter, his head spinning. “Yeah, I’m very aware, Big Bill.’

"Married.”

"Yeah, I _know_." 

"He has a w-wife." 

"Are you fucking short circuiting?" Richie asks, and there’s a punchline somewhere, but it gets lost in the swirl of alcohol. He closes his eyes and it only makes him dizzier. “You sound- you sound stupid.”

“I talked to him yesterday,” Bill says, and it sounds like a surrender. “He finally picked up the phone, though I suspect it was by accident.” 

“Yeah?” Riche looks at the bread box on the counter, theorizing about a peanut butter sandwich or a grilled cheese. Or, grilled peanut butter and cheese. “Did he say anything bad about me?” 

“He... d-didn't mention you.” 

“Oh. Well, fuck.” Richie sips his drink, praying that he’ll get drunk enough to pass out before he starts crying again. “That hurts, kind of.” 

Bill goes quiet over the line, and Richie can perfectly picture the pitying look on his face.

He opens his fridge, sees the block of sharp, decides he’s not ready for the arduous task of using a cheese grater, and searches his cupboards for peanut butter instead. A jar of tomato sauce tips over and he catches it before it falls. "Hell yeah. Fucking catlike reflexes. Hey, Bill...my man, where do you live?”

“Hollywood…” Bill says, “We lived thirty minutes from each other. Remember?”

“No shit.” Richie turns the stovetop on, moving his cast iron pan to the side. “Wait- I remember now, kind of. Us meeting, like, once. Good times.”

“Well, I’m heading to bed soon. Early day tomorrow,” Bill says. “You should get some rest too. It’s late there.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, waving his hand over the lit burner, “probably.”

“Be careful, Richie.”

Richie lowers his forearm over the flame, holding it until it licks at his skin and burns. "I am."

  
  


Eddie shows up to Richie's apartment unannounced on a Saturday morning with a small duffle bag, a reusable shopping bag, and a new toaster oven. 

Richie carries the box inside and puts it in the kitchen. “Is this for me?”

“No, asshole, I just carried it up two flights of stairs for fun.” Eddie takes off his shoes near the door, drops his bags on the floor next to the coffee table and crosses the room. He stops in front of Richie, skating his hands over Richie's hips and up his waist. Richie freezes here, transfixed by the gentle touch. Eddie kisses him once, a timid hello, and steps in closer, into Richie’s arms, pressing them chest to chest. He breathes Richie in, hooks his arms under Richie’s and plants both hands flat on his back. 

It's been over a week since they've seen each other, though they've been texting some. Eddie hasn't brought up Myra at all and doesn't now, nor does he explain why he's here this early in the day, holding onto Richie like a lifeline. Richie doesn’t ask either, because he knows better now.

“Thank you. For the toaster oven. It’s...sweet.”

They're standing in front of the window, the sunlight filtering through the blinds, falling in thin lines over Eddie's face, Eddie is attempting to frown, and Richie is devastatingly in love. From here, everything makes sense. From here, everything is easy, and breathtaking, and heart wrenching. From here, Eddie looks like he might love Richie too.

“I mean sweet like _cool_." Richie blushes, titling his head down to touch their foreheads together. "I’d never call you sweet. You’re a pissant.”

"You're insufferable," Eddie mutters and kisses him again, sweeter, to say 'I missed you' without actually saying it. “I brought bagels too. Fresh ones, not the bullshit from the grocery store.”

“Very exciting. I’m stoked for us to eat fresh bagels that have been toasted in my new toaster oven.” Richie hunches a little to nuzzle his nose behind Eddie's ear. He smells clean, like an expensive hypoallergenic laundry detergent and fancy shampoo. "Any other plans?"

What he means is 'how long are you staying?' though he knows it's never longer than a night. 

Eddie answers Richie with another kiss, deeper than the last, and there's no mistaking that this one means 'I want you.' He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and Richie does the same, meeting him in the middle. With a swipe of his tongue and a scrape of his teeth at Richie's lower lip, Eddie pulls back, looks at Richie and says, "We’re going to organize your bookshelf."

“That’s so sexy.” Richie smiles and kisses Eddie’s cheek, then his jaw, trailing down to his neck. “Tell me more.”

“And your kitchen,” Eddie sighs, popping the buttons at his collar, tilting his head up to make more space for Richie to kiss. “Did you know spices expire faster when not stored properly?”

“Then what?” Richie asks into Eddie’s neck, helping him with the buttons. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“We’ll look at the instruction manual for your toaster oven.” Eddie shrugs off his shirt and sticks his hands under Richie’s, groping the soft, squishy flesh. He sucks in a breath and exhales shakily with a small whimper when Richie starts to place open-mouthed kisses to his shoulders and along his collarbones. “To make sure, um, the- uh, fuck, it’s compatible with your kitchen outlets. Do you know if they’re at least 20 amps? Like… _shit_ , Richie. Is the wiring up to code?”

Richie presses his crotch to Eddie's hip. “I’m so fucking hard right now.”

Eddie lets out this airy little laugh that makes Richie's dick throb, and walks Richie backwards towards the couch. "Did that actually turn you on?"

"Everything you do turns me on." Richie sits, patting his thighs. "Come here."

Sometimes Eddie pretends he's shy, as if he hasn't openly admitted to loving the feeling of a cock hitting the back of his throat. As if he hasn't looked up at Richie and admitted, with spitslick lips, to wanting Richie to be the first one to fuck him. Now he’s quiet, arms crossed over his bare chest as if he’s cold, eyeing the obvious line of Richie’s hard dick in his jeans. He takes his time lowering himself into Richie’s lap and straddling his thighs, stroking both hands against the growth of his stubble, then pushes his glasses into his hair. 

“Handsome,” Eddie whispers, a greeting and a revelation all in one, and swallows the awed sound Richie makes. He licks up the sigh on Richie’s lips, dipping his tongue inside as if to chase the following inhale, and pulls away too quickly, giving him a rapt look. "I could kiss you forever." 

A kick in the teeth would hurt less. 

They don’t have forever. This week isn’t even guaranteed. They have tonight, and maybe tomorrow. Sundays are usually Eddie and Myra’s ‘date days,’ a phrase Eddie had uttered with such misery that Richie’s stomach started to hurt. But, he’s here and he’s staying for long enough to temporarily satiate both their needs, however fucking engimatic or nonsensical they may be. 

They have tonight, and tomorrow morning they’ll wake up together. That’s enough. It has to be.

With a great effort, Richie grips the back of Eddie’s thighs and stands up. Eddie gasps and clings to him. His brows shoot up to his hairline and he says, “I didn’t know you could do that.”

Struggling, Richie says, “I didn’t either,” and carries Eddie to the bedroom.

Lying on top of Richie's rumpled sheets, still warm from Richie's body heat, they undress each other, stopping to kiss and touch along the way. Richie smooths a hand up Eddie's scarred chest—Sometimes, he can't tell if it's luck or misfortune that brought them here. The way Eddie arches into Richie's hold is something right out of his dreams, but there's always a current of restlessness just under the surface that reminds Richie who and where they are. Eddie worries his lower lip between his teeth and rolls onto his back, letting Richie kiss a straight line down his torso. He squirms and whimpers, stroking himself lazily. Richie slips his tongue between Eddie's fingers, tasting as much of him as he can, and teases a fingertip between Eddie’s legs, dipping into the crease of his inner thigh. Eddie stiffens, shifting away from the touch. “Not now. Not today.” 

"Okay," Richie says, and leaves a gentle kiss on his hip. "Let me know when you're ready. Whenever.” 

“Soon.” 

The concept of 'soon' has often been Richie's only source of hope. Soon, things will be different. Soon, things will be better. Soon, Eddie will open up to him and love him. 

To Richie, the promise of soon is enough to get him through another day. It's an endless race to a nonexistent finish line, but it's enough. 

"Soon." Richie kisses him, and makes it count.

It's midday when they leave the bed and venture into the living room. Wearing his tight black boxer briefs and one of Richie's t-shirts, Eddie steps into the kitchen, past the stack of unorganized books and the unboxed toaster oven. 

“Why do you have a cake in your fridge?"

Richie believes Eddie is referring to the fifty dollar custom order vanilla cake layered with whipped cream and fresh raspberries, topped with European buttercream and lemon curd that he plans to sit on sometime in the next few days.

“Because," Richie says, from his spot sprawled out on the couch, "it’ll melt if I leave it on the counter.” 

“No, I mean, generally. Why do you have a cake?" Eddie appears in the threshold between the kitchen and living room, holding two open beers, looking hilariously distressed. "Wait, is it your birthday? Fuck, Richie did I miss your birthday?” 

Richie grins, “No, Eds, you didn't miss my birthday. Lovely that you seem to care though." 

Eddie rolls his eyes and settles in the space between Richie's legs, leaning back against his chest. Richie accepts the beer and takes a sip, wrapping his other arm around Eddie's waist. “Do you think I’d buy _myself_ a cake for my birthday?” 

"No." Eddie taps the neck of the beer bottle to his lips, looking at the window. "I assumed someone had gotten it for you."

"Who in New York would buy me a birthday cake?"

Eddie shrugs, craning his neck a bit to meet Richie's eyes. "I don't know. You could have friends I don't know about."

All Richie does is wait for Eddie these days. Even when he's out, attempting to be a functioning member of society, he's feeling for his phone in his pockets and counting down the hours until they get to see each other. Eddie has more faith than he should in Richie's ability to make friends. This sort of naivety isn't new— growing up sheltered and controlled made him into someone who lacked understanding about how a lot of things worked. Intricacies of interpersonal relationships included.

"People here would rather have me drawn and quartered for a joke I made in 2002 than be my friend. They might hate me _more_ now that they know I'm gay." 

"Maybe," Eddie mumbles, and moves around in Richie's embrace, turning a bit onto his side. "So, you bought yourself a cake big enough to feed ten people. Why?"

"Good question," is what Richie says, and surprisingly, he feels pretty calm about what he's about to do. He's already in a secret affair with his childhood friend, whom he fought a supernatural clown with twice and survived. How much more strange and fucked up can things get? "I mean, I have a reason. I don't know if it's a good one, but I have a reason."

Eddie hums and takes a drink. "So, I take it you're not eating it? That's...concerning."

Richie takes his phone off the coffee table and opens up his video files. He picks one at random and presses play, then hands the phone to Eddie.

Eddie sits up and turns, swinging his legs over Richie's leg to hang over the side of the couch. He looks at the phone, his brows furrow, and he drags his finger over the screen, starting the video over.

"What-" Eddie watches with an expression somewhere between confusion and disgust, which isn't surprising. "What is this? Is this _porn_? Richie, are you doing porn?"

"Basically, yeah," Richie answers, and holds his breath, waits for the very real possibility of Eddie leaving. Or, being freaked out to a point where Richie will have to kick him out so he can cycle between burning himself and edging himself. But, Eddie doesn't budge.

Eddie watches the rest of the video in silence, then he starts it over again.

"Someone could hack you, Richie," Eddie mutters, his eyes glued to the screen. "The cloud, or whatever."

"I was gonna say that no one wants to see my ass that badly, but apparently people do," Richie says, the tension dissipating in his body. "Covered in cake, no less."

Eddie levels a wary look at him. "I won't judge you. But, I do question how safe it is to rub food on your asshole."

Richie waves him off. "I've done worse things to my body."

"Is it like...a thing for you?" Eddie glances down at the phone. "A- um, what's it called?"

"A kink?"

"A _kink_ , yeah."

"It doesn't get me off, if that's what you're asking.” He touches his beer bottle to Eddie’s bare thigh and Eddie flinches away from the cold glass and pinches him in retaliation. Richie loves him so much, he could scream. “I'd like to think I have more refined tastes than this."

"Yeah?" Eddie asks, with a huff of laughter. "Like what?"

"Solo videos where the guy makes prolonged eye contact with the camera while fucking himself or using a fleshlight. It makes me uncomfortable," Richie says, and allows a grin to stretch over his face. "But, that's kind of what I'm all about."

Eddie looks at him for a moment, takes a drink of his beer, and says: "That makes sense."

"Exactly. What about you? What kind of porn do you like? Wait, let me guess. Bukkake? Bondage? Doctor-patient roleplay?" Richie's heart flutters—the flush creeping up Eddie's cheeks and his infuriated little pout have always been the ultimate form of validation. It's better than a laugh, only because deep down he _knows_ Eddie thinks it's funny _and_ that he can give it back just as much. "I could see you getting into some step-mom porn. You know, for closure or something."

"Yeah, maybe," Eddie says easily. "You watch humiliation porn for the same reason? Some bully/victim roleplay, I'm guessing. Those videos of the guys getting slapped, spit on, and face-fucked in locker rooms, right?"

Richie laughs, thinking of every time he has been one upped by Eddie with a raunchy mom joke, cups a hand behind his neck, and kisses him. They'd joke around like this when they were kids, a seemingly innocent competition to see who had the filthiest mouth, and Richie had always wanted to kiss him. To shut him up, to compliment him for a particularly disgusting joke, to keep himself from blurting out 'wow, I'm in love with you.'

"Okay, so this," Eddie says, licking his lips. He smiles, something small and bashful, and motions to Richie's phone. "It doesn't turn you on. You don't need the money. Why are you doing it?"

It’s emotional whiplash, and no one does it better than Eddie. There's a reason why Richie is doing fetish porn, only it's hard to put into words without revealing how pathetic he is.

It's the completion of a task. It’s the rush of dopamine he desperately lacks. It's the clear exchange of goods, Richie's dignity traded for validation in the form of money and compliments. Mostly, it's like picking at a scab that isn't completely healed. Compulsive. Destructive. Satisfying. Looking at blood and new, pink skin and thinking 'I did that.'

The same reason why he’s here, with Eddie.

"I don't know,” Richie starts, because it’s easy. “It's fun, I guess. It's kind of exhilarating. It's fucking ridiculous. But, my entire life has been ridiculous. Actually,” he says, dryly, “selling videos of myself sitting on a three layer chocolate cake with my bare ass is the least ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"What's more ridiculous than this?"

Richie chugs the rest of his beer, watching Eddie’s wide, beautiful eyes, smacks his lips, and says, "Getting involved with a married man."

Eddie blinks, brings the tip of his beer bottle to his lips and asks: "What do you do afterwards? After you sit on the cake?"

"Take a shower, usually."

" _Usually_?” Eddie asks, incredulously, and shakes his head. ”No- I mean with the cake?"

"Uhh…" Richie goes to take another drink and remembers that his bottle is empty. “Depends.”

"Richie, please don't tell me you eat the cake."

Richie preemptively throws his hands up in defense. "It's _my_ ass. So what?"

Eddie cackles at this, literally holding his belly. “‘So what?’ It’s gross, man!”

“It’s _my_ ass!” Richie reiterates. 

Eddie gives him a sideways glance. “Okay, _Trashmouth_. It’s your ass,” he says, and looks down at the phone. He starts the video over again, which would make it the second or third time watching it. Then he finishes his beer, looks at Richie and says, "I think you can make better quality videos than this."

Richie scoffs. "What, you wanna be my creative director or something?"

"I can."

“Okay, sure,” Richie laughs, and at the sight of Eddie’s steady expression it peters off into something more nervous. “Wait, for real?"

“Yeah.” Eddie shrugs and sets Richie’s phone and their empties aside. He settles back between Richie’s legs. "Could be fun."

“Could be,” Richie says, resting his hands on Eddie’s belly.

Eddie guides Richie’s right hand lower, underneath the tight cloth of his boxers. It isn’t so much a hint as it is a demand, and Richie follows it without question.

The late afternoon rolls by lazily to make way for early evening and the sun streams golden orange into the apartment as Eddie sets up the needlessly fancy cake on a stool. He props Richie’s phone up a bit farther away than usual with some books behind it, turning and shifting it to get the correct angle, showing everything except for the shoulders up. _“You have a nice body. Not just your ass,_ ” Eddie had said, which Richie is still reeling about.

Eddie takes a seat near the phone and gives Richie a thumbs up. “Ready.”

The sitting is always uneventful, though sometimes he can convince himself that the heart palpitations he gets beforehand are an adrenaline rush rather than his body's natural response to performance of any kind. The act itself is what’s satisfying to him. The mess, the taboo and childishness of it. Somewhere, his six year old self is smashing a jelly donut between his hands just for the thrill, unknowingly preparing him for this moment.

As Eddie had instructed him to do, Richie twists his hips, grinding down a bit onto the smooth, slippery texture. Then he stands up, rubs both hands over his ass, squeezing a little, and sits down again.

"That looked good." 

“Yeah?” Richie looks at Eddie over his shoulder and stands up, letting the mess slide down his legs. “That really get you going?" 

"Not at all,” Eddie answers. “But, it looked good. I want twenty percent of the profit.”

"Come here." Richie opens his arms and Eddie comes over, cautiously. 

“Don’t-” he starts, and yelps when Richie pulls him into a tight hug, sticks both hands under his t-shirt, and smears frosting up his back. Eddie attempts to wriggle away, but ultimately fails to hide how delighted he is at Richie’s attention. Richie catches his open mouth in a kiss, spins him around, and plops him right down onto the cake. Eddie gasps, looking down at his lap. "Dude, what the fuck!" 

"Okay, wait, don't move,” Richie says, fixated on the raspberries and whipped cream between Eddie’s thighs. "I think I get why this is hot now."

"You're the worst." Eddie peels himself off the stool and gives Richie a light shove, letting his hand linger on Richie’s chest. “Shithead.”

“You know it.” Richie swipes his finger over Eddie's thigh and comes away with a lump of frosting. "Taste."

Eddie ducks away from Richie’s offer. "No, thank you."

"Just a little,” Richie says, and sticks the finger into Eddie's mouth anyway, rubbing the frosting on the inside of his lip. 

Eddie swishes his tongue around Richie's finger and frowns. "Gross. You can feel every individual grain of sugar in it. Here, try." He dips his hand into the frosting and lemon curd and Richie opens his mouth, waiting. Eddie drags his thumb over Richie's tongue and Richie takes it into his mouth, humming around it. Eddie's lips part around a sigh, he pulls his thumb away, grabs Richie’s ass, then smooths his hands up to smear cake over Richie's chest. "Menace," Richie mutters, right before Eddie presses them close for a kiss. Richie smiles and pulls back, tugs Eddie's t-shirt up and over his head, and kisses him again, laughing as the frosting melts between them.

Some hours later, after a thorough shower, risking their lives for shower sex, and brushing their teeth at Richie’s tiny bathroom sink, Eddie is fast asleep at Richie's side.

Richie is wide awake, too wired to even close his eyes. They burn and go unfocused against the light of his phone screen, which is playing the scene from earlier for the fifth time in a row. 

The lighting is great, bringing warmth to Richie's pasty skin and making Eddie's glow even more. It's playful, touching and tickling, spreading the sticky cake over each other's skin. He can't see their faces but he knows how they're looking at each other, has memorized the lines that appear at the corners of Eddie's eyes when he smiles, knows too well the heat that rushes to his cheeks when Eddie's whispers to him. He turns the volume up, just enough to hear them laughing and Eddie's soft voice.

" _I always have so much fun with you."_

Richie starts it over, watching it one last time, unsure if it's a reward or a punishment, then deletes any trace of Eddie from the clip. He turns over, buries his head in Eddie's chest and thinks, _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

In the morning, Richie wakes up alone.

  
  


All it takes is a bit of mood swing induced exhaustion coupled with anxiety-induced restlessness, a few morning drinks, and access to the internet for Richie to resort to clearing his entire email inbox and hate-watching videos of his old stand up routines.

He’s close to two days without sleep and honestly, it’s a privilege to be this keyed up with nowhere to go. How else could he have been able to count that he’s told variations of the same cunnilingus joke eighteen times since ‘03? If he’s lucky, this self-loathing binge will lead to some sort of artistic growth. Artistic growth meaning he’ll stop lying about having had sex with more than one woman. Or, it’ll lead to him quitting comedy completely and finding all new ways to hate himself. 

“I like eating pussy,” on-screen Richie says. His awkward stance and stilted laughter should have told everyone that he did not, in fact, like eating pussy. He’s only done it once-- in college when, for some indiscernible reason, women were attracted to him-- and was wholly indifferent about the experience. Still, he goes on about it as if he’s an expert, sweating through his thrifted, bleach-stained t-shirt. “Pussy-eating is a combat sport. It really is. Women don't like it when you say that, but it really is! You train for it, you know. You finger a bit, you lick a few clits to keep yourself in shape. Then, sometimes you step into the ring and it's much more of a challenge than you thought. You know what I'm gonna say. Hair. Pussy hair is like a sneak left hook you didn't see coming. But, you trained for this! You can't throw in the towel. So, you power through, you go five rounds with three-inch long pubes getting stuck in your teeth. And let me tell you, there's no bigger adrenaline rush than conquering a pussy while choking on a hairball that’s gathering in the back of your throat."

Richie has made an absurd amount of money degrading women, getting pats on the back and full belly laughs from men who agree with the bullshit he spews. Then, having to explain it away during the preamble of a shameful hookup in his dark green room, or in a car stalled in an empty parking lot at two in the morning. _"I don't write that shit. I'm gayer than Christmas. By the way, will you sign this NDA and let me hold your phone before you suck me off?"_ It was easy to label him a bachelor that viewed women as conquests and subjected young models to his ginormous dick. Someone who would never settle down or get married, because he couldn’t be tamed. Richie welcomed the brand with open arms, though all he wanted was to be tamed and for a shred of stability beyond drugs and alcohol. He accepted the label because it was easier to hide in plain sight, letting everyone carry on thinking he was the poster boy for nearly-middle-aged bachelors who dreamt of the life he had. 

Even if Richie were straight, he’s positive that no woman would want to sleep with him after being made aware of his brand. He’d say it’s a wonder he has any friends at all, but he can hardly call the bland group of yes-men in LA his friends. He’s less surprised that his real friends haven’t disowned him after finding out who he is. Or, rather, who he’s been pretending to be. They've known him long enough to be less fazed by his brand of overcompensation. 

Eddie doesn’t like Richie’s comedy act, and has no reservations about telling Richie this. “ _It just isn't funny,_ ” he had said, and he’s absolutely correct. “ _You’re funnier than that_ ,” he added, which Richie knows is bullshit.

Richie checks his phone. It's only 11 AM, too early for Eddie to take his lunch break. He sends a text, an _'I miss you’_ disguised as _‘how’s work?’_ and finds Bev's number in his contacts.

"Richie," she greets. "How are you?"

“You know how I've been madly in love with Eddie since we were kids?” 

Whereas Bill had figured it out on his own, Richie had spilled the truth to Bev without her even asking. They were drunk on stolen alcohol, hidden in her bedroom with the lights off, whispering to keep from waking her dad. 

“I know of that.”

“So, uh.” Richie blinks at his laptop and lifts his glasses to rub his eyes. He closes the tab playing his five minute rant about fake breasts and looks at the blog post someone posted on Twitter earlier. The headline, in bold, red letters reads: **Is Shock Comedian Richie Tozier Lying About Being Gay?** “I’m in New York.” 

"Really?" Bev sounds hopeful, her words coming out all high-pitched and rushed. “You’ve been in touch with him then, how is he?” 

Richie scans the article, scrolling past the summary of his unfortunate history, a transcription of some of his worst jokes, a picture of 30-year-old Richie cupping a female comedian's breasts on a red carpet, and a few tweets accusing him of being "gay for clout" and reads the end.

_Tozier and the mystery man have been spotted around New York a handful of times, specifically around Brooklyn and Queens. Sources say that Tozier lives in one of the two areas. It's unknown if he and the man have more than just a friendly relationship, but they look close. Check out the photos below and make your own judgement, but I'm betting on romance!_

Underneath, there's the same blurry picture of them on the subway platform and the one of them at the bar, on their first night together. 

"Uh, good," Richie answers, closing that tab too. He takes a breath and adds: "We’ve been hooking up." 

Bev gasps and then coos at him like he's a sick child. "Oh, honey." 

"Yep." Richie opens up his alt Twitter account and checks his messages. He’s gained followers since the video he uploaded with Eddie's help, which has spawned requests for him to branch out from cake and into things like jello and gingerbread houses. "Oh, also I've been making videos of myself sitting on cakes. People masturbate to them and pay me for it." 

"Richie,” she sighs. “Honey.”

"And I told Eddie and he offered to help me and, uh he did...so that's a thing." 

" _Sweetie_." 

"It would hurt less if you just called me a stupid fuck,” Richie says, opening up a new tab. He types ‘Myra Kaspbrak, New York’ into the search bar.

"Alright you stupid fuck, have you told him you love him yet? If you don't tell him I'm gonna do it." 

The very first result is a Facebook page, followed by something called _Pinterest._ “No thanks.” 

“And why not?” Bev asks breezily. “It’d be better if you just told him. You've felt this way for as long as you’ve known him. The worst that can happen is he doesn’t feel the same and at least he’ll _know_ then. But, there’s gotta be some mutual feelings there if he’s actively hooking up with you, right?” 

Myra’s Facebook page is restricted, with the description _Wife and Lover of Jesus Christ_. There are only two public pictures. One looks like an employee ID photo of her and the other is her and Eddie on their wedding day. They’re posed beneath an arch of flowers, holding hands, smiling at the camera. Eddie is wearing a clean black suit and he looks younger, less wrinkles in his forehead and creases near his eyes. He looks happy, and Richie wonders what changed. He wonders how much of Eddie’s smile is influenced by what he had forgotten, spurred on by the empty space he longed to fill.

Richie closes the page and shuts his laptop. “I don’t think so.”

Bev laughs, but there’s no humor in it. "Why call me if you don’t actually want my advice?"

“It’s not great advice,” Richie says, stepping into the kitchen. He pours the last bit of his alcohol into a glass and attempts to savor it. “No offense.”

Bev scoffs. “Yeah, and what’s your plan?”

Richie forces a laugh, matching hers. “I just wanted to _talk_ , jesus fucking christ. Relax.” 

Bev is quick to fire up, and it’s been worse this past year. There's been a permanent serrated edge to her, slicing at anyone who even dares to take a sour or aggressive tone in her general vicinity. 

"You didn’t fucking _say that_ when I picked up the phone? What am I supposed to think when you’re giving me a play by play of your mistakes?” 

The problem is, Richie is just as liable to snap. The two of them are too similar, too sensitive, far too eager to cover it up, and easily rattled when they're already in a fragile state.

“Not try and fix people, maybe?” Richie suggests. He throws open the freezer door and pulls out the ice tray, finding it empty. “Shit. I don’t know, maybe listen for once? Not treat me like I’m still 15?” 

“Okay, fuck you,” she spits. “Stop putting words in my mouth. You only call me about _your_ shit and wait for me to tell you what to do and every time I call to check up on _you_ , you act as if you’re fine. Think twice about calling me next time you impulsively want to get your life together, because I’m done.” 

Richie stops with his head in the freezer, a laugh bubbling up in his throat.

”You know, Beverly, not everyone can have a little fairytale moment like you and Benjamin and then practically dry hump in front of everyone while their friend bleeds out in the hospital.” 

The line goes quiet for a moment, and Bev is quiet when she speaks. “That’s mean, Richie.” 

“Yeah, well,” Richie says, feeling as though he could sink through the floor. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t tell him,” she says tersely. “He’s better off not knowing.”

The call ends and Richie immediately opens Twitter, his fingers hovering over the keyboard when two texts from Eddie come through.

_I forgot my hydro flask at home and I’ve been trying not to scream for three hours_

_how are you? Did you sleep?_

Richie leans his cheek against a pack of frozen hash browns, cooling his heated skin.

_come over later? I sleep better with you_

_I'll be there_

  
  


The city is filled with all sorts of people, and Richie isn't so self centered that he'd believe he stands out as a tall white man with thinning hair and ugly glasses. On his block alone there are probably about six people who fit Richie's general description. He may sport a particular kind of early decay, manifesting as permanent five o'clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes, that makes him recognizable upon closer inspection, but no one is actively looking for Richie Tozier, _shock comedian._ Despite this, Eddie walks a generous half foot away from Richie on the sidewalk with his hands tucked into his pockets, glancing at his surroundings as if a paparazzo will jump out from behind a bush, shouting Richie's name, and catch them looking too friendly.

They've gone out of their way to avoid the busy parts of the city, opting to never venture into Manhattan—Eddie says it's filthy and full of tourist bullshit and Richie would rather not be seen there at all—but Eddie is still cagey. Quieter, more tense, stepping out of Richie's reach even when people aren't looking. Sometimes, this extends into the privacy of Richie's apartment, when Eddie kisses him with a little less passion behind it or doesn't touch him with the urgency Richie has become accustomed to.

Jealousy doesn't sit well with Richie, but rejection is what eats at him from the inside out. The moment he notices someone pulling away his first instinct is to dig his heels in more, making it harder for them to shake him off. It always ends with them tearing him away, causing more damage than they would have if Richie had let go on his own.

He drifts closer to Eddie's side as they approach his apartment building, and Eddie shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. Richie's urge to touch him grows, spiraling with all of the half assed theories about why Eddie is less affectionate than he was two weeks ago. It's the perfect formula for catastrophic thinking. Suddenly, it's less of 'I would love for you to touch me and make me feel wanted' and more along the lines of 'if you don't hold my hand, it means you hate me and if you hate me I'll walk into traffic.' It doesn't have to be much, he isn't asking for Eddie to wave Richie's hand in the air and announce to the world that they're fucking. All Richie needs is a touch. Even if it's brief, just a brush of their fingers or a gentle squeeze to tell him that everything is as okay as it has been. 

Inside, Eddie takes off his shoes and wordlessly retreats to Richie's bedroom. Richie follows, because it's the only thing he knows how to do anymore. 

Eddie lies on top of Richie's unmade bed, reaching out for Richie's hand. Richie collapses at his side and Eddie rolls over, resting his head on Richie's chest.

"Tired," he mutters, pressing his face into Richie's shirt. "Mind if we just lay here?"

It's Thursday, and they've spent the afternoon playing hooky. Stealing kisses in the most hidden aisles of bookstores, arguing over who's going to pay for lunch, reminiscing on Eddie's god awful music taste. Even with Eddie's caginess and the knowledge that this is fleeting and half an illusion, the day still ranks higher than most other days.

"We can do whatever you want to do."

They can stay here for as long as Eddie stays and Richie will let him lie at his side, picking up his hand to place kisses at the creases of all of his knuckles, and he'll do his best to silently shout, through gritted teeth that he's in love. That he's been in love and it's only gotten worse. 

Worse, because they're closer than they ever have been and if this is all for nothing, the silver lining of hope made of Eddie's rare sweet words and tender touches will be the fucking noose that hangs Richie from the ceiling fan in his shoebox apartment. 

"Eddie."

A low hum vibrates through Richie's ribs.

"When you did this before...with other men, was it the same?" 

Eddie shifts back to look up at him, pathetically doe-eyed in a way that makes him look young. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean," Richie starts, taking a breath. It would be easier if he didn't have Eddie looking at him like this. The downside is that he wouldn't be able to see Eddie looking at him like this. It's a lose-lose. "Is what we have any different? What we're doing, I mean. Does it feel the same?" 

"No," Eddie says, his brows furrowing a bit. "Of course it's different." 

"In what way?" Richie asks. He's already made it this far. If his mouth dries up completely and his throat closes in a subconscious attempt to save himself pain and embarrassment, at least he's made it this far. 

"It's-" Eddie breaks Richie's gaze, which is both a relief and a source of panic, and traces a line with his finger up Richie's wrist. "Just different. Because it's you." 

Richie stares at the slightly crooked shape of Eddie's nose. Waiting. Sweating. Trying, and failing, to find a way to prepare for the worst. "Meaning?" 

"I know you." It's hushed, barely there at all. And he must sense more questions, because he looks up at Richie's eyes and adds: "That's all." 

"Okay." _That's all, that's all, that's-_ “I’ve talked to Mike and Bill about us.” 

“Us,” Eddie says, like it's a foreign word. 

Richie chooses to breeze past it like Eddie hadn't said anything at all. “And Bev. I don’t think she’s going to be talking to me for a while.” 

Eddie smirks. “What did you say?” 

“Something stupid about her and Ben.”

"Something stupid. I’m not surprised," Eddie says. He flashes a grin, then softens and kisses Richie's shoulder. “What was it?”

The memory of Eddie in the hospital, pale and bruised beyond recognition, not breathing on his own, comes to Richie's mind often. The pain that wrenched at his gut and fear that rattled his bones are just as fresh as the anger he felt when he looked over and saw Bev and Ben huddled together in the corner of the waiting room, pawing at each other. It wasn't some strong, noble urge to keep the focus on Eddie, it was the first inklings of jealousy cropping up inside of him. The man he loved was clinging to his life and two of his friends decided it was a good time to kiss each other.

Richie shakes his head. "It's nothing. Have you talked to her? She sounded happy I was here with you."

"Not recently," Eddie says, his smile fading as quickly as it appeared.

Last year, in the first six weeks or so after Derry, Eddie didn't go out of his way to update Richie or anyone else about his life. This was understandable, considering he was likely spending most of it in bed, waiting for the pain to pass. Then, he began to heal, and he went back to work, and he and Richie started talking more often. Richie had thought, naively, that the disconnect between Eddie and the other losers would fix itself on its own. 

"They sort of imply you never pick up the phone for them," Richie says, and clears his throat, trying to sound casual. "Bill did anyway."

“I do," Eddie responds. It's sharp, pricking at Richie's sensitive nerves. "I talked to Bill a few weeks ago."

Richie swallows the dryness in his throat and looks at the ceiling. “Well...good.”

“He said he wanted to check on me,” Eddie says. “And he did.”

Last year, after Richie went back to LA and failed to 'go back to normal,' had an embarrassing public breakdown, and started contemplating if a fifty foot fall would kill him or just paralyze him, he got three phone calls a day at minimum.

“I remember when I-” Richie stops, wiping his sweaty palms on his t-shirt. He rests a hand on his racing heart, as if that alone can keep it from feeling like it’s going to rip through his chest. “When all that stuff was going on with me. They were always checking up on me because they thought I would-” 

“Yeah," Eddie cuts in, his tone clipped. "I know.” 

"I, um…” Richie’s face burns and there's a pressure in his chest, rising at the base of his throat. This is the most open he’s ever been about his near suicide attempt, without making it a joke, and the love of his life just brushed it off like it was nothing. And so fucking _what_? It’s nothing to _cry_ about. “I didn't want to talk to them at all then. I still don't sometimes. But, it's nice that they give a shit." 

Richie pauses for about a half second, Eddie’s answering silence embedding itself under his skin. 

"You know, I'm like the fuck up of the family. Like, the one everyone just rolls their eyes at after the third rehab stint. Or, I'm like a toddler running with scissors...except the scissors are-"

Eddie kisses him, pressing their lips together harder when Richie opens his mouth to speak. He rolls over and drapes himself over Richie's chest, sucking at his lower lip. Richie's glasses are knocked askew and their teeth clash together painfully when Eddie climbs into his lap. In between the eager kisses, Richie manages to get a few words out. "Hey, I'm not really-"

Another bruising kiss cuts him off and Richie turns his head, gasping out a laugh. "I’m trying to-"

Eddie finds Richie's lips again, a firm hand on either side of his head.

"Fuck, Eddie, can we just-" Richie grabs Eddie by the shoulders and holds him still. "Can we just talk?"

Eddie sits back on his heels, sighs, and drags a hand over his face. He inhales shakily and fixes his gaze on the wall behind Richie's head. Richie holds his breath. Waiting. Sweating. Trying and failing to find a way to rewind the past five minutes and start over. 

“I have to get home,” Eddie mumbles finally, and sits on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes. He turns back to Richie, who's still lying on his back as if Eddie is holding him down. “I'll call you later.” 

"Let me walk you to your car."

It's bright outside, the sun and open air making him feel raw and exposed after being shut away with Eddie and the crushing tension surrounding them.

Eddie walks ahead and gets in his car. Richie follows and stops at the driver's side door, slouching to bring them eye to eye. 

"What?" Eddie asks, clicking the seat belt into place.

Richie glances at the street ahead of the car and then behind them. There's no one lurking or loitering with an iPhone pointed at them. "Are we- um- is everything good?" 

Eddie puts both hands on the wheel, flexing his fingers. "I just have a lot on my mind." 

"Okay," Richie says, and sucks in a breath, "do you want this to stop, or...?" 

Eddie releases one hand from the wheel and places it over Richie's on the door. "Do you want it to stop?"

"No," Richie answers.

Eddie smiles a little and then, they do this dance in which Richie inches forward through the window and Eddie leans away, before moving forward again as Richie steps back. 

"Um." Richie chuckles and his eyes start to sting. "You'll call later?" 

"Of course." Eddie picks up Richie's hand and gives it a quick kiss. 

Richie pulls away, mumbling a goodbye, and heads back into his apartment building. He doesn't cry until he's inside, faced with his lonely living room. Before they get out of hand and he starts ruminating on every embarrassing, uncomfortable, and awful experience he's had since '99, he cuts off his tears. It's a talent, but it's a fickle one. Sometimes he'll try to stop crying about his tragic existence only to break down sobbing seconds later at a commercial featuring a happy gay couple.

He takes his phone off his nightstand and for a fleeting moment, he considers calling Eddie and asking him to come back and stay the night.

Instead, he goes back downstairs, walks aimlessly down the block, and calls Ben.

Ben is a good guy. Sweet, easy to talk to, generous to a fault. Richie isn't asking for much, other than someone to listen to him whine for a bit.

"You know a bit about love, don't you Ben?" 

"Not particularly," Ben says. "Did you think that about me? That's funny."

Richie crosses the street, passing a couple kissing in front of the corner market. "You've experienced it though. Loving someone that's unavailable." 

Ben makes a clicking noise and hums. "I have, yeah. What's going on?" 

"Well, I'm in love, Ben. With Eddie." 

"Do you want to vent or do you want me to give you advice?" 

"I just need to vent," Richie answers, going warm. Ben makes it easy.

"Okay." 

Richie approaches the nearby public park, where people are jogging, having picnics, and generally going about their lives with an ease Richie hasn't ever known. 

"I love him so much I want to crack my ribcage open and have him live inside." 

"Okay," Ben repeats, after a pause.

"He doesn't even like his wife...but he's with her and I think he's going to stay with her," Richie says, stepping across a patch of wet grass and onto the paved path. "If I have to do this any longer, I might fucking drown myself. It's...not a good situation for me."

Ben makes a sympathetic noise, and Richie figures he would reach through the phone and pat him on the back. "I know."

"But, if it ever stops, I don't know what I'll do." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Me too."

"For what it's worth, I think you should tell him," Ben says. "Bev disagrees now, but I don’t see how it can hurt." 

Richie scoffs. "Funny." 

"You should call her." 

"Why?" Richie stops in the shade of a tree, more out of breath than he'd like to admit.

"To apologize."

"I _said_ I was sorry," Richie says, not caring that it sounds childish. "And actually, I think she should apologize to me too." 

Ben actually laughs a little at this, which only helps to irritate Richie. "She didn't do anything wrong."

"She talks to me like I'm a fucking kid."

"She was just trying to give advice." 

"Okay," Richie laughs. "Tell Bev that maybe she shouldn't be giving any sort of relationship advice when she still makes you sleep on the couch every night after you fuck." 

Ben chuckles and says, “Have a good one, Richie," and ends the call.

Richie clutches his phone in his hand, more hollow now than he was when he started the call. This is a marked improvement on his previous mood, which was something akin to the feeling you get when you accidentally miss a step on the stairs, only on an endless loop.

He circles the main pathway until his feet hurt and the sun starts to set, knowing that Eddie is at the home he shares with his wife, sitting down with her for dinner. 

"Hey!" 

Two strangers wave at him from a picnic table. Richie waves back, not breaking his stride.

"Hey, you're that guy! Ricky Tozier, right?"

"It's _Richie._ "

"No, dude, it's Ricky I think."

Richie stops, turning back to face them. "Yeah."

They grin at each other and one of them says, "That's so cool! Mind if we get a picture?"

"Nah, I'd rather not." Richie puts his hands in his pockets, starting to turn on his heel. "Uh, thanks for the support though."

"Wait!" the other one says, and holds up a lit joint. "Wanna smoke?"

They're young, college age it looks like, and they're dressed about the same as the other young, artsy people around here but at least they look less smug about it.

"Sure."

He sits on the edge of the bench and they pass him the joint, staring wide-eyed at him as he takes a pull. It's been a while since he's smoked, maybe over a year. Before he failed at rehab.

"So, the legendary Trashmouth is in New York. What are you up to here? Doing any shows?"

Richie shakes his head, exhaling smoke through his nose. He takes out his phone, tapping his passcode, and opens up his video files. "Wanna see what I've been up to?"

The two of them nod, leaning in to peer at the paused image of a cake on the screen.

  
  


When they were younger, Richie could get Eddie to do just about anything. Richie would rile him up until he absolutely _had to_ prove he wasn’t a pussy, and Eddie's glares and protests only fueled Richie's desires. More often than not, it was selfish. Stealing touches, coming up with elaborate plans that’d force them to squeeze together thigh to thigh, and reeling Eddie into arguments just to hear him curse and rant.

"I'm not allowed to talk about her but you want to see where we live?"

They’re sitting in Eddie's car in front of Richie's apartment building, having spent their morning in bed and most of the afternoon talking shit about a sitcom Richie had auditioned for a few years ago. _"It's cheesy anyway,"_ Eddie had said. _"You're better than this."_

Now, he's looking at Richie like he's about to smack him, which he probably deserves. It might knock some sense into him.

"It's not about _her_ ," Richie says. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about Myra but ironically, and nonsensically, he wants to step foot into the home she shares with Eddie. “I'm just curious to see how you've been living for the past decade."

A half truth. It is about Myra, only because she's a part of this too. She's an unknowing participant, possibly the only reason why Eddie is running to Richie at all. But, this is mostly about himself, his misplaced jealousy, and ridiculous urge to one-up her. Childishly, he thinks _whatever their house is like, Eddie and I could do better._

This isn't all about her. This is about punishing himself. Like all the games he plays, this all about how much he can take, how far can he go, how low can he sink.

This will hurt, but it’s better than binge drinking or burning himself.

“Why?” Eddie asks. “I can just tell you if you’re so curious.”

“You gonna tell me about your sex toy collection?”

Eddie glares at him, which is exactly what he wanted. “I don’t have a sex toy collection.”

In as serious a tone as he can muster, Richie asks, “How will I know unless I see your house?”

“Even if I had a sex toy collection, do you think I’d keep it out in the fucking open?” 

“No?” Richie puts on a british accent that’s borderline offensive, even by his standards. “A humongous rubber knob with matchin’ bollocks makes a lovely centerpiece, innit?”

“Oh my god,” Eddie says, biting back a smile. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever heard. Get out of my car.”

“You got it, boss.” Richie unlocks the door and swings it open. “Forget I asked.”

Eddie takes Richie’s hand and kisses the knuckles, pressing them against his smile. “Okay. Fine.”

“Okay?” Richie gives him a questioning look. “You’ll let me see your penis pumps and anal training kits?”

Eddie drops his hand and starts the car. “Close the door, asshole.”

Richie smiles and does as he's told.

The house is quaint, settled at the end of a cul de sac between two equally adorable houses. 

“This is weird,” Eddie sighs, jamming the key into the lock. Inside, they stop in the narrow foyer. On the wall behind Eddie’s head, there’s a large framed picture, easily 18 by 24 inches, of Myra and Eddie posed in front of a Christmas tree in matching sweaters. Richie grimaces and tears his eyes away from the atrocity. 

”You might be right.”

Eddie passes the kitchen entryway and disarms the security system on the wall. He turns back to Richie and gives a half-hearted wave at the space behind him. “Well…this is it.”

It’s modest and clean, like a Sears living room model. There’s a beige couch with a blue throw blanket over the back, a solid blue rug in the center of the floor, and heavy blue drapes keeping the light out. On the wall, there’s a big TV next to a few decorative plaques with ‘inspirational’ phrases on them. Richie crosses the room for a closer look, chuckling to himself. 

“‘ _Follow your heart,’_ ” he reads, tapping the clay. “Didn’t know to do that until I read this just now.”

Eddie stands with his arms crossed over his chest, chewing his lip, his eyes following Richie’s every move, gauging his reactions. As it is, there isn’t a lot to react to. There isn't much of Eddie at all in the space—not in the decor, the self help books on the shelf, not even in the photos propped on the mantle. The only photo Eddie appears in is the same jarringly happy wedding photo Richie saw on Myra’s Facebook. Richie zeroes in on Eddie's hands, the way they fully envelope hers, and finds himself feeling sick with want.

No, it never could have been them and it never will be. But that doesn't stop Richie from longing.

Nausea sits like a brick in his stomach, and sweat breaks on his forehead. He clears his throat and nods to the hallway. “Restroom?"

"Yeah," Eddie mumbles. "That way."

The bathroom possesses a Patrick Bateman level of organization, meaning it must be Eddie’s alone. There isn't a perfume bottle or flowery shampoo in sight, but there is a pyramid of neatly rolled hand towels on the counter, toothpaste in a jar, and about two dozen bottles of vitamins lined on a shelf opposite the toilet.

Richie rinses his clammy hands and sweaty face, uses one of the provided towels to dry off and drops it in the designated bin. Then, because he’s here and snooping is the least terrible thing he’s done, he opens the medicine cabinet.

Alongside jars of vapor rub, tubes of moisturizer, and bottles of aftershave and shaving cream, there are rows of prescription pills. A few sleeping aids, a bottle of Adderall with a discolored, peeling label, and a bottle of oxycodone. On the bottom shelf, there are three bottles of Xanax side by side, completely full and collecting a thin film of dust.

Richie shuts the medicine cabinet and opens the bathroom door, flinching back when he finds that Eddie is on the other side. “What the fuck?”

“Okay.” Eddie takes Richie by the thumb and tugs him into the hall. “So you’ve seen the living room and my bathroom. Backyard next, then we’ll leave.”

Richie glances at the door to his right. It's ajar, revealing a peek of a neatly made bed. “Is that your bedroom?”

"Yeah." Eddie frowns. "You don't need to see my bedroom."

"You've seen mine," Richie says, lacking a better argument. There's no real reason he needs to see where Eddie sleeps with his wife. It's just an itch he has now. He's raw from constantly picking like this, yet here he is looking to bruise.

"And?"

"And, I want to see yours," Richie answers, and goes ahead.

The bedroom is painted powder pink with muted green accents. Like the living room, there isn't much to see. There's a window with sheer curtains, a vanity in the corner, and a humidifier on one side of the bed that Richie knows Eddie uses when the air is dry or when it's cold out. 

“What are you looking for?” Eddie follows close behind Richie, practically breathing down his neck. “Seriously.” 

He isn’t actually looking for anything. Nothing tangible, anyway. There's no chance of him stumbling upon an old photo album filled with pictures of them as kids, but maybe he'll find catharsis weaved between the layers of ache and envy. "I don't know."

Richie stops at the side of the bed, eyeing the extravagant pillow set up. This is where Eddie turns in at night, when he isn't curling into Richie's side and snoring softly in his ear. He's here, with his wife. If they touch or cuddle at all, Richie refuses to accept it. Not when Eddie touches Richie like he's starving.

He brushes his fingers over the plush duvet, his heart racing, and as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed he thinks, _this is it_. This is the pain he was seeking. 

Eddie stops in his tracks. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

Richie forces a laugh and wiggles his eyebrows. “Wanna fool around?” 

“Stop,” Eddie responds, no trace of humor in his tone.

The thing is, Richie couldn't stop if he tried. This is the perfect opportunity for self destruction handed to him on a silver platter. “What, you’re telling me you don’t want my cum stains on your duvet cover?” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says, and holds up a hand. “Don’t even say it.” 

Richie grins. “Don’t say what?” 

“You were about to say ‘make me.’” 

“Well,” Richie says, and spreads his legs, taking a slightly more serious tone. “I wasn’t, but now I kind of want you to.” 

Quieter, Eddie repeats, “Shut up.”

"Kiss me.” Richie reaches for him and Eddie knocks his hand away.

"Fuck off."

There are explanations for what Richie does. The eerie sense of deja-vu this is giving him might be the reason why he reaches out again and catches Eddie's wrist. The chill running up his spine reminds him of the rush he'd get when he'd dare Eddie to do things he'd never do without being spurred on by relentless teasing.

"Just say you're too chicken and I'll drop it."

Eddie snatches away, keeping his eyes on Richie, and steps back until he's standing with the doorknob clutched in his hand. The door shuts with a quiet click, and it amplifies the sound of their breathing in the small room. He steps forward, stops between Richie's knees, hooks his fingers in the collar of Richie's shirt, and pulls him forward so he's looking straight up the plane of Eddie's chest. 

"Yeah?" Richie asks, and his laugh comes out more like a strangled breath. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna fuck you," Eddie answers plainly, and kisses him, inhaling Richie's whimper. He tangles his fingers in Richie’s hair, kisses his cheek, and whispers in his ear. "I'm gonna make you come." 

It's possessive— Eddie kisses him like it's a promise in itself, as if this is _their_ bed, even if it's only for the time being. He'll think of Richie when he's lying here tonight, even more than he already does. Richie swoons at the idea because he's just as possessive. 

"Take your clothes off," Eddie says, pulling Richie to his feet. He kisses Richie's other cheek and adds: " _Please_."

Richie gets completely naked, not wasting any time and Eddie does the same, then carefully spreads a clean sheet over the bed, explaining that they'll have to be quick. "She isn't due home for a few more hours but I don't want to stick around too long." 

Richie lies down on his back, tilting his head to the side to sniff the pillow beneath him. It's the same scent that clings to Richie's bedding.

Eddie rummages through the top drawer of his dresser, still rambling. "Plus, I want to get everything in the wash just in case-"

"Eds," Richie says, setting his glasses aside. "Just wanted to say that your neuroticism is extremely sexy to me."

"Thank you." Eddie climbs into bed, slotting himself between Richie's legs. He smooths his hands along Richie's sides and starts his meticulous routine of taking Richie apart. Richie submits willingly, letting Eddie kiss marks into his neck, squeeze the soft swell of his chest, open him up and sink into him like they're made to fit like this. He breathes heavily into Richie's mouth, his wet lower lip dragging up Richie's chin. Shaking, Richie arches up against Eddie and silently asks for more. A smile stretches across Eddie's lips and he whispers, "You're a bad influence." 

Richie's skin tingles, all the way down to his fucking toes, his breath caught in his throat and hitching every time Eddie buries himself deeper. He traces his fingers along the scar on Eddie's back, starting under his right shoulder blade and curving parallel to the spine, and smiles back at him.

This is a thrill, even with the guilt building in Richie's chest. Even with the knowledge that this is only a game. Even though he knows, in the back of his mind, that he will cry about this later.

When he rubs his thumb down the raised skin of Eddie's scar and Eddie shudders, his breath fanning hot over Richie’s face, everything else falls away and there's nothing left but Eddie's dark eyes.

This isn’t an affair, Richie thinks, this is escapism. 

Richie digs his nails into Eddie's side, into the hollow spaces between the ribs, and the hiss he gets in response sets his heart racing.

This is a drug. 

Eddie closes his eyes, hiding his blown pupils, and kisses Richie again, licks messily behind Richie’s teeth and sucks Richie's tongue into his mouth.

This is gluttony. 

Eddie keeps going after Richie comes, tightening the iron grip on Richie’s thigh, his teeth sinking into Richie's shoulder. Richie touches the deepest part of Eddie's scar, thinking of how he held his hand there and applied pressure as if it would stop the blood gushing between his fingers, and digs his fingers into the uneven ridge like he could open Eddie up all over again. Like he wants to, just to be the one to sew him back up.

This is every single life and death they've experienced. 

“Here.” Eddie returns from Myra’s bathroom with a towel and throws himself back onto the bed, rolling onto his back. 

Richie drapes an arm over Eddie’s belly, kisses his shoulder and asks: "Do you really not have any sex toys?" 

"No. I use my hands because I don't like the idea of a foreign object in my body."

"They have different ones, Eds. Not everything is a giant rubber dildo with realistic veins on it."

"Oh, I know. Glass is too rigid, stainless steel feels like a fucking medical exam, and the silicone ones are too porous and breeding grounds for bacteria,” Eddie says, ticking the reasons off on his fingers. “On top of that, the sealant layer will likely give you cancer." 

"So," Richie concludes, trailing his hand down the toned line of Eddie’s stomach, "you finger yourself then." 

Eddie looks at him, redness spreading across his cheeks. "Sometimes." 

“Sometimes?” Richie dips two fingers into the crease of Eddie’s thigh, pausing there to wait for permission. Eddie inhales, opens his legs wider, adjusts his position to give Richie room. “Okay?” Richie asks, and Eddie nods, knocking his foot against the bottle of lube at the end of the bed. Richie wets his fingers and teases them between Eddie’s legs, and Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, gasping when Richie presses a single finger inside. He's tight, not loose enough for anything more than this, but he moans when Richie curls his finger, slips up, and calls him baby. Entranced by the sound and the way his expression relaxes, Richie says it again, letting the word crawl out of his throat. He presses the word into Eddie’s neck, _baby, baby, baby_ only it sounds more like _please, please, please._

Eddie circles his hand around Richie’s wrist. “Wait,” he says, opening his eyes. “What was that?” 

Richie blinks, shifts back to look at him. "Huh?" 

Eddie removes Richie’s hand completely and sits up. "It sounded like-" 

A woman’s voice echoes through the wall. “Eddie? You’re home already?” 

"Fuck. Oh, fuck." Eddie jumps to his feet and shoots a glare at Richie, who’s still thinking about his fingers in Eddie’s ass. “What are you doing? Get up!”

After a few seconds, it finally clicks and Richie scrambles to get dressed, watching Eddie kick his shoes, the bottle of lube, and the dirty sheet under the bed.

"I can go through the back," Richie suggests, pulling on his t-shirt.

“Can you? Really?” Eddie is fully dressed already somehow, tucking in his shirt into his pants. "You’re going to hop the fucking eight foot wall in my backyard?" 

Richie pulls on his jeans and realizes his boxers are still at his feet. "Maybe." 

"Richie I've never seen you leap more than three inches off the ground." Eddie throws Richie's socks at him and literally hisses, like a fucking animal. " _Hurry_ _up_."

"Hey, suck my dick," Richie mumbles, shoving his boxers into his front pocket. 

"That's why we're in this mess." 

Richie puts on his shoes and turns to the window, confused to find that it only opens about six inches. "What the fuck is wrong with your window?" 

Eddie slams the window shut and smooths his hands over his damp hair. "It's so intruders can't get in." 

"You're literally fucking insane-" 

“Shit. Oh, fuck. I’m so fucked.” Eddie spins around in a circle, his eyes darting around as if another exit will magically present itself. He plants both hands on Richie’s shoulders and walks him backwards. "Okay, okay, okay. I got it. Closet. Now." 

“Wait,” Richie says, but Eddie is already opening one of the bifold closet doors and shoving Richie inside. The irony doesn't go unnoticed, and under any other circumstances this would be hilarious. As the door slams shut, Richie says, "I hate you for this." 

"Shh. Shut up,” Eddie whispers on the other side of the slatted door. “Shut the fuck up.”

Richie peeks through the slats, watching Eddie start to pace, and realizes that he left his glasses on the bedside table. 

“Shit,” he breathes, just as the bedroom door opens.

Myra stops in the doorway, Eddie pauses his nervous pacing, and for a minute, neither of them speak.

"Hey,” she says, stepping into the room. “You're home early." 

Eddie puts his hands in his pockets, then takes them out and crosses his arms over his chest. "So are you. Don't you work until 5:30 on Mondays?" 

"Wednesdays." 

“You said Mondays.” 

“No, it was Wednesday.” 

Another silence stretches between them, tense enough that Richie’s heart begins to race. Eddie stands as still as Richie, frozen in place, surprisingly not on the verge of a full blown panic attack. And honestly, Richie is proud of him. Myra’s entire presence is intimidating— from what Richie has learned, her default setting is confrontational and she uses passive aggression as a means of conflict resolution. 

"How long have you been home?" Myra asks

"A few hours. I left early. Didn't feel good,” Eddie answers easily, and ducks away from the hand that hovers above his forehead. "Better now though. Must have been something I ate."

Myra drops her arm to her side but stays close, her gaze never leaving Eddie’s face. "You never answered my text earlier and when I called the office, they said you were in a meeting."

This morning, Eddie had shown up at Richie’s apartment just past eight, taking his tie off at the door. He hadn’t even mentioned work and Richie hadn’t asked. He never has. It goes hand in hand with his penchant for taking what he can get. And, who does it benefit for him to question Eddie about his lies? He isn’t Myra’s friend and never wants to be. He has no obligation to run and tell her about Eddie skipping work. 

“What did you eat?”

Eddie takes a subtle step back, giving Richie a view of his profile. "Salad. The dressing was off, I think."

Myra nods and glances around the room. Richie looks at his glasses on the bedside table and holds his breath.

"You've been home for a few hours?"

"Maybe not a few,” Eddie answers, a little too quickly. “Maybe 75 or 90 minutes-"

"What's that smell?" Myra asks.

Richie closes his eyes and wishes he could curl up and die right here. Silently, he prays for a hurricane, a freak house fire, or for someone to burst through the front door with a loaded gun. Over the sound of his pulse rushing in his ears, Richie hears Eddie’s shaky voice. 

"What smell?" 

"Like...body odor." 

Eddie hums, his faux confused tone the worst Richie has ever heard. "Body odor?" 

"You know what I mean, Edward,” Myra spits. “Sweat. Bodily fluids." 

This isn’t real. They’re trapped in a poorly written network TV dramedy or some awful rehashed comedy routine. It’s the only way Richie can even begin to compartmentalize his budding anger and growing discomfort at Myra’s mere existence. He opens his eyes and places his hand gently against the door, gritting his teeth. If he has to out them just to save them both from the embarrassment of this conversation, so be it.

"I don't smell anything,” Eddie insists. 

Myra takes a step closer and this time, Eddie stays put. "You're sweating. Why?" 

"I was-” Eddie clears his throat and lowers his voice. “I was masturbating." 

This, and the pained look on Eddie’s face, is better and worse than any half-assed self-deprecating stand up bit Richie could ever write. In the back of his mind, there’s a faceless audience laughing at their unfortunate situation and Richie is smiling back at them, blinded and burning with shame under hot, bright lights. This is the pain he wanted, but not like this.

"Oh,” Myra breathes. “Oh, okay." 

"Well- can you…” Eddie motions to the door. “Will you go so I can finish?" 

Myra doesn’t budge. "You don't want me to help you?" 

Richie is on fire, his shirt sticking his skin with sweat and panic triggers his inappropriate laughter response. He slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise, then sticks his fingers through the crack between the double doors and hooks them around the edge.

Eddie lets out a nervous chuckle. "It's faster if I do it myself.”

"Are you sure?" Myra asks, desperation dripping off her words.

"I'm sure. Thanks though.” Once again, Eddie motions to the bedroom door. “You should go get dinner started." 

The two of them stare at each other, looking like two boxers facing off. Myra takes the first swing, her voice unwavering.

"You never let me touch you anymore." 

Richie jumps away from the closet doors, stumbling a bit to keep his footing. Clothes hangers scrape against his back, clacking together, and he freezes, snapping his head back up to look through the slats again. 

Everyone goes quiet, and the longer the silence lasts the more Richie feels like throwing up. _You never let me touch you anymore_ , she says, as if she’s entitled to it. As if she can’t look at him and tell he doesn’t want it.

Finally, Eddie asks, "What do you mean?" 

"Every time I try to touch you, you make an excuse,” Myra says, and rather than sounding sad, it’s accusatory. 

Eddie shrinks, his voice even smaller when he speaks. "That isn't true." 

"So, let me help you,” she says, and waves a hand vaguely at his crotch. “With this.”

"Now?" Eddie asks. He spares a quick glance around the room and Richie catches the panicked look in his eyes. “I-”

Myra follows his line of sight and pauses momentarily before training her gaze on Eddie again. "Why not?" 

“Myra.” Eddie exhales a weary sigh. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Eddie.” Myra’s voice is soft, but her tone is abrupt. “Why not?”

"I-” Eddie lowers himself to the edge of the bed, facing away from the closet. “Okay." 

Richie bites down on his lip to keep from screaming. 

Myra sits next to Eddie and leans in for a kiss, which Eddie barely reciprocates. Then, she reaches into his lap.

This is more than anything Richie could have asked for. Stepping into their home and imagining them together is one thing, just a superficial cut to add with the rest, but seeing her force an attempt to touch him the way Richie does feels like a knife in his throat. 

Myra’s movements are jerky and awkward, her elbow bumping Eddie’s on each upstroke. "Is that okay?" 

Eddie shifts in his seat and spreads his legs like he has a cramp he’s trying to get rid of. "Yeah, it's fine." 

Myra looks at his lap. "It doesn't seem like it." 

"No, it's fine." Eddie drops his hand to his side and gathers the duvet in his fist. "Keep going." 

"Do you want me to use my mouth?" 

It takes every ounce of self control in Richie's body to keep quiet. He clenches his jaw, letting the ache spread up his cheekbones until his eye sockets begin to ache.

Eddie shakes his head. "No, no. Just-" 

"Eddie, what's the matter, why aren't you…?" Myra trails off, shaking her arm a little. "It's like you don't…"

"What?" Eddie asks. "It's like I don't _what_?"

Myra takes her hand out of Eddie's lap and puts distance between them. "I feel like I don't...get you excited."

Eddie looks at his lap, then at her, and says nothing.

"Eddie?" she questions, and her voice cracks. 

And Eddie responds with stony silence.

Myra stands up, wiping her hand on her blouse. "I'll get dinner started," she croaks, and rushes out of the room, slamming the door behind her. 

Some day, Richie will be able to explain away this sudden heavy, heart-sinking feeling. For now, he lets it run rampant, lets his chest go tight, and his eyes burn.

Eddie sits with his head in his hands, his shoulders rising and failing with each deep breath. After a minute, he sighs, stands up, and frees Richie from the cramped closet. 

The first thing out of his mouth is: "That was fucked up."

"I know, I know," Eddie says, and swallows hard. "Just wait here for a second, okay?" 

"Do I have a choice?" Richie asks, meeting Eddie’s glassy eyes.

"No," Eddie says, and kisses him, cupping one shaky hand over his cheek. He leaves the room, leaving Richie standing in the closet with the taste of Myra's waxy lipstick on his tongue.

Every other emotion threatening to rise to the surface and bubble over dissolves in an instant, making way for a second wave of jealousy induced nausea. Richie turns and strokes his hand over one of the many ties hanging on the rack to his left. The smooth, silky material slips between his fingers. He twirls it around his palm, and tugs it off the rack. Then, he rolls it up and puts it in his pocket. 

Eddie rushes back in seconds later, motioning Richie to follow him. Richie snatches his glasses off the bedside table and puts them on, following Eddie in the hallway where Eddie hands over his car keys.

"Okay," he whispers. “When I say to, take these and go to my car. Wait for me there.”

They tiptoe down the hall and through the living room, stopping before they reach the kitchen. Eddie signals for Richie to wait and steps into the kitchen, calling attention to himself. Myra turns and before she can spot Richie lurking around the corner, Eddie kisses her. She squeaks in surprise and melts into it immediately. Eddie’s fingers card through her hair, and if Richie didn’t know any better, he’d be fully convinced that this was real. 

Eddie wraps an arm around her waist, using this opportunity to wave in Richie’s direction.

Richie passes the kitchen and bolts for the front door. He closes it softly behind him and trips on his way down the front steps, nearly eating shit on the way to Eddie’s car.

Not even a full minute later, before Richie is even settled in the passenger's seat, Eddie is running down the driveway to join him.

“That was quick,” Richie says, once they’re at the stop sign at the end of the street.

“I’m going to the grocery store,” Eddie explains, through gritted teeth.

"You're an expert at lying, you know,” Richie says. “It's almost pathological." 

Eddie white-knuckles the steering wheel and speeds through the intersection. "That isn't what pathological means." 

They spend the rest of the ride in silence, and when Eddie stops in front of Richie’s apartment building, Richie gets out of the car before waiting for a kiss goodnight.

  
  


Last year, after getting home from Derry, Richie found out through Bev that instead of showing up to help his friends, Stan had slit his wrists and spent two days in the hospital. Out of courtesy, Richie had waited a week or two for Stan to recover before calling to yell at him. He cried on the phone, loud and belligerent even though he was mostly sober, and called Stan selfish for attempting suicide, only because he was upset he hadn't come up with the idea first. 

Stan, who has always been frustratingly understanding and equally blunt, patiently listened to Richie’s entire rant before telling him to get over himself.

"So, you may have heard that I'm having an issue," Richie says, opening his bedroom window. He takes a pull from his poorly rolled joint and blows the smoke out into the night air. Yesterday, Eddie had complained about the smell and claimed that it clings even if you open a window. Then, after ten minutes of convincing, he took a hit, nearly coughed up a lung, decided it wasn't for him, and told Richie they'd have sex on the couch next time if his bedroom still smelled like weed.

"Why would I have heard about your issue?" Stan asks. 

Richie sprawls out on his bed and puts the phone on speaker mode, holding the joint between his lips. "You haven't talked to anyone else?" 

"Yes, but believe it or not,” Stan drones, “we have lives that don’t involve mediating your problems.” 

"Right." Richie takes another puff, holds the smoke in, then exhales. "I've been sleeping with Eddie." 

"I assume you've already figured out how bad of an idea that is." 

Ah, here's the subtle shaming Richie needed. No one does it like Stan. God, he’s so _reliable_. 

“I love him,” Richie responds, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. He’s a little slow, his limbs a little heavier. “I've loved him for so long…and it’s only gotten worse. All the time we’ve been spending together lately makes it feel like I have him, but I know it isn't real…I want to tell him. Maybe he'll- maybe we can...I don't know. I just want him to know.” 

"He knows already." 

Richie puts the joint out and wraps himself in his blanket, stoned enough that the bed is comfortable even without Eddie next to him. He’s likely already in bed for the night but Richie might call him anyway, if only just to be humored for a few minutes. 

This morning, Richie was unfortunate enough to stumble upon a tweet speculating whether Richie is _in love_ with his New York mystery man. The basis of this accusation was yet another low quality photo of Richie smiling a little too hard at Eddie in a public place. If a teenage stranger online can recognize a lovesick stare, Eddie probably can too.

"Maybe."

“‘ _Maybe_.’ If I recall correctly, you were never good at subtlety,” Stan says dryly. “Unless that's changed." 

The thing is, Richie isn't hiding his feelings. He's done everything short of verbalizing them, practically biting his tongue to keep from saying 'I love you' when Eddie is pressing tender kisses to his cheeks. He's openly needy, thriving solely on Eddie's touch, the roughness of his voice in the morning, and the fond gazes that do nothing but trick him into thinking this is something different.

"It hasn't.”

"Right, so you're still transparent," Stan agrees. "I'd be hard pressed to believe he hasn't picked up on any feelings from you. Not only that, you moved across the country to be closer to him. I don't know if that has the most platonic connotation." 

For the sake of disagreeing, Richie wants to lie and say he didn't move here for Eddie. According to Eddie, Richie is here to run away from his life in LA. But it wasn't aimless, or inconsequential— Richie was searching for relief and any shred of happiness he could find, and ended up exactly where he wanted to be, wrapped in Eddie's arms. He could have gone anywhere, his dwindling bank account balance and fickle attachment to life willing, yet he chose to move to New York, specifically to one of the five highly populated boroughs. More specifically, one that just happens to be fairly close to Eddie's neighborhood. Richie has been obvious from the very start. If Eddie sees all of this as accidental, or as anything less than a cry for help and a precursor to a nervous, ill-timed love confession born out of desperation and an urge to self harm, he's more socially inept than Richie thought.

"No, it doesn't,” Richie says.

"I doubt he thinks you're just in it for sex." 

Richie glances at the empty spot next to him, sudden longing adding to his heaviness.

"You think _he's_ in it just for the sex?" 

Sometimes, Eddie holds on to Richie like a lifeline. Other times, he's rushing to get back home as if he actually wants to be there.

To ask, more explicitly than he already has, if this is anything other than convenient fucking around would shatter the illusion of a fun, inappropriately passionate affair. He's been close before, and he isn't sure telling Eddie how he feels and asking if he feels the same is worth the risk. 

There are too many variables to factor in. For example, if Eddie, _not_ reciprocating Richie's feelings, knows Richie loves him, has known for _X_ amount of time, and has been using Richie for sex regardless of knowing, and Richie is hurtling towards complete self destruction at _X_ speed, then how many days can he go without jumping off the roof off his apartment building? 

It might be easier not to say anything at all, even if it means constantly being on the verge of implosion.

"That I can't say,” Stan says. “I haven’t talked to him in months.”

"I- he...He says he's glad I'm here. He says he likes spending time with me. He says he's always wanted me and that it's different with me than it was with other men, but I don't know what that means when he calls us _friends_ and goes home to his wife almost every night." Richie wraps himself tighter in the blanket. It doesn’t quite give him what he’s looking for, but it’s enough for now. "The sex is good...and when he isn't being super fucking wishy washy, we have a good time hanging out. But, I don't want it to be just sex and _hanging out._ " 

Stan scoffs. "Of course not. But until he sorts out the wife situation, that's what it'll be unfortunately." 

Richie groans and pulls the blanket over his head. "Tell me what I should do.” 

"I think you know what you should do." 

"Can you give me advice like a normal person? I'm like a day away from starting the process of drinking myself to death." 

“Okay. Well, he's still married so stop sleeping with him,” Stan says easily. “Move back to California. Try rehab again. Find a therapist that you actually like and consider going consistently. Then, if your mental and emotional health allows it, see your way back to him.” 

"Stan,” Richie whines.

Stan makes a _tsking_ noise in response. "You asked."

Sometimes, Richie thinks he’s afraid of success more than he is of failure.

"It's not easy." 

"I know,” Stan says. “I didn't say it would be easy." 

Richie ends the call without saying goodnight, and buries his face in his pillow until it’s hard to breathe.

  
  


**Is Trashmouth Doing Porn Now?**

_Sources say that since Richie Tozier bombed on stage last year, and his career has taken a nosedive, he's pivoted to making fetish videos involving his ass and a cake! Is this signaling another nervous breakdown for the middle-aged comic, or is this just another bit and we're missing the punchline?_

**gimmebc** : _Made the mistake of clicking the link and ruined my entire morning._

 **bigdave420** : _ngl i wish he would show his dick. his ass is okay i guess_

 **Brit_Daly** : _I think the article is inaccurate. It should definitely mention how hairy his ass is so we really know what we’re in for._

 **antontheman** : _He isn’t funny or hot either. wtf is this??_

 **Chris_J** : _Used to love this guy, really hope this is a joke._

If anything, someone being desperate enough to scour the internet for Richie’s not-so-secret fetish porn accounts is a win. The public ridicule and collective shaming is just the icing on the cake. Not only does this give him a real excuse to feel sorry about himself, it breaks him free from the box of impending doom he’s been living in regarding his career. With no help from a team and their bad decisions or a fickle group of fans eager to ‘cancel’ him, he forced his public image into a nosedive. Honestly, this is the most he's accomplished on his own in a while. Later, when he's spiraling, it will be tinged with pride. 

Eddie shuffles back into the bedroom, wearing Richie’s t-shirt and his boxers, and turns the light off. 

Richie closes the article and opens Twitter, wondering if it would be a bigger impact to ignore everyone's tweets or to respond individually to each one. If he’s really lucky, he’ll be able to catch someone calling him a slur in real time.

"Hey." Eddie tucks himself under the comforter and fresh sheet, and props his head up with his palm, illuminated by the light of Richie's phone. "It's not good to look at your phone before bed." 

Richie puts his phone down and takes his glasses off, feeling his eyes strain to adjust to the dark. "I had the blue light filter thing on." 

"That actually doesn't make a difference." Eddie says softly. He shifts closer and taps his fingers to Richie's jaw, trailing up to his cheek. "It only blocks a certain percentage. If you're looking at the screen for a long time and holding it close to your face, the damage has already been done." 

"That's adorable." Richie smiles into Eddie's hand, breathing in the scent of his clean skin. "Are you concerned about my already impaired vision?"

"It'll fuck with your sleep," Eddie says. Richie can't see his face, but he can hear the smile in his voice.

"Yes, my totally healthy sleep schedule will be ruined."

Eddie laughs, stroking his fingers over Richie's cheek. "Goodnight," he whispers, and presses a kiss to Richie's lips. He turns over, wrapping Richie's arm around his waist. Richie slots himself against his back and breathes him in, pressing his nose into Eddie's damp hair.

"Goodnight." Richie pushes up Eddie's t-shirt to touch his chest, sliding a hand over the scar. He listens to their breath mixing in the small room and imagines himself holding Eddie together, single handedly keeping his chest from ripping open again. Eddie brings Richie’s palm to his lips and kisses along the inside of each finger, overwhelming him effortlessly. Affection crowds around his lungs and at the base of his throat, threatening to choke him, and his slow inhale makes him lightheaded instead of doing anything to dissipate the tension compounding inside of him. 

There’s an explanation for everything Richie does.

Being the perfect mix of antsy and sad is often one of the catalysts for his worst decisions. The other catalyst, of course, being a need for a carefully crafted disintegration. A close third is validation, which always complicates things. His desire to be seen, praised, and loved is an unstoppable force meeting an immoveable object, his desire to fuck himself up. 

Sometimes, it’s all three. A storm that’s anything but coincidental.

"Eddie."

Eddie responds with a sleepy hum.

"I'm in love with you."

The silence is louder than white noise, buzzing in Richie’s ear.

Eddie stills, the arch in his spine no longer rising and falling with each breath. "What?” 

"I'm...in love with...you." 

Saying it out loud the second time is surreal. Granted, he hasn’t thought this far ahead. It’s as if past this admission, he’d simply cease to exist. All his thoughts rush to catch up with the present, swirling with disbelief, and his adrenaline spikes at the realization that he said the words without having to tear the words out of their hiding place. It was almost too easy. Part of him wonders why he waited at all, if saying it feels as natural as a greeting. _Hello, I love you. Good morning, I love you. Hi, I’ve been missing you my entire life, I love you._

Then, Eddie's silence strikes him and he remembers. This is what it is and nothing more.

Eddie turns to him, and in the dark they stare at each other. Before Richie can breathe his name, Eddie gets up, pausing at the edge of the bed, and walks across the room to turn on the light. He looks at Richie, wide awake. "I- what is this? What are you doing?" 

"I'm in love with you," Richie repeats, his mouth dry. "I'm not sure how many other ways I can say it." 

“I-” Eddie stops, and though his expression doesn’t change, he somehow looks increasingly disturbed as the seconds pass. “What?” 

It’s cold in the room suddenly. The window is open, letting in a strong breeze. Richie stares at the darkness beyond the glass, muttering to himself more than anything. “Don’t make me say it a fourth time.” The bed dips next to him and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie tuck himself neatly back under the comforter. He looks at Richie then at his lap, balling his t-shirt up in his fist. Richie keeps his eyes on the window, willing himself to disappear. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, too soft. "You can't-, you're my best friend..." 

The fucked up thing about being let down is that there’s always the simultaneous realization that you were, in fact, naively hoping for the best.

Richie pulls out his last defense mechanism, letting his lips stretch into a wry smile. "I'm your best friend, huh?" 

"Of fucking course you are!” There’s a quiet fierceness in his tone, on the verge of something Richie can’t quite place. “I’m closer to you than anyone in my whole life. You're, like, a brother to me." 

"Whoa, okay. A brother.” Richie smiles harder to counteract the abrupt tightness behind his ribs. The least he can do is wait until he’s alone before he cries. “That doesn't at all make me want to jump head first off a bridge." 

Eddie sighs and puts his head in his hands, which only serves to force Richie’s heart further into the pits of his stomach. "God, what the fuck? You're... in _love_ with me?” 

“Have been for a while.” Richie swallows the lump in his throat. “Sorry to break it to you." 

The following silence is stilted, his stare hard enough to make Richie squirm. "This can't happen, Richie." 

Fear thrums under Richie’s skin, because suddenly this seems like much more than Eddie not loving him back. "Okay, so bring me up to speed,” Richie says, chuckling because he can’t help himself. He rubs his eyes, drops his shaking hands to his lap and finally meets Eddie’s eyes. “I'm your best friend...and I'm allowed to be your side piece and help you cheat on your wife, but being in love with you is crossing the line?" 

Eddie groans, and rolls his eyes as if this is the most frustrating thing he’s ever experienced. As if this is even a fraction as painful for him as it is for Richie. "It isn't _crossing a line_ but, fuck Richie, it isn't like we'd-" He cuts himself off, clamping his mouth shut, and his hard expression fades.

Richie waits, searching Eddie’s eyes. "It isn’t like we’d _what_? Be together?” he asks, and it’s calm despite the tears brimming at his eyes. He sits up, motioning at his bedroom. “Eddie we _are_ together." 

On Eddie’s back, baggy on his shoulders, is Richie’s t-shirt. On Richie’s nightstand, there’s a coffee mug Eddie left this morning, still in the same spot and ready for him to rinse and use again tomorrow. In the bathroom, lined neatly on the counter is Eddie’s razor, his toothbrush case, and the expensive tin of hair pomade—duplicates of what he has at home, because this is just a shoddy imitation. A second thought. A back-up plan. They are together, whether Eddie likes it or not.

Eddie’s voice is barely a decibel above a whisper, nearly drowned out by a gust of wind. "I can't leave my wife.”

"I'm not asking you to," Richie says, even though that's absolutely what he wants. For Eddie to be his completely.

"Then why tell me you're in love with me?" Eddie balls both hands into fists and stretches his fingers out, and says through gritted teeth, "Why even move here?" 

“That’s-” Richie laughs a little, despite himself. Despite feeling like Eddie just punched him in the throat. "Okay... that's fucked up. What do you want me to say? I lose no matter what. I tell you I love you out of morbid curiosity that you might feel the same, knowing nothing will come of it either way or I tell you and I look like a desperate piece of shit begging you to leave your wife.” Richie sucks in a deep breath, pain twinging in his chest. He wipes at his eyes, hating the sad look in Eddie’s. “Or, I could have kept it to myself. I could have gone on letting myself suffer every day looking at you, letting you fuck me and treat this like a thrill ride while I'm planning a fucking wedding in my head." 

This isn't a love confession, this is a suicide note.

"Richie…" 

This is the culmination of a year-long panic attack. 

"I love you Eddie. Sorry if that's inconvenient for you."

This is true fucking despondency. 

"You don't-” Eddie shakes his head and says, louder: “I can't leave my wife, Richie." 

It’s a slow, painful bitterness rising up Richie’s throat as he fully realizes the ease at which Eddie slips in and out of Richie’s apartment, in and out of the comfort of his embrace, in and out of the facade of wanting him.

"You can,” Richie says. “You just don't want to." 

Eddie scoffs, shaking his head again, his eyes narrowing. "You don’t know what I want." 

"But I do, though. I get it,” Richie says, in his gentlest, most sympathetic voice. “You want to be able to suck my dick whenever you want, all while leaving no room for anyone to suspect you're anything but a straight man who loves his god-fearing wife and his perfect little house in the suburbs and his boring fucking heterosexual life. It’s _tragic_ , really. There could be Lifetime movies about you."

Eddie frowns, putting a deep furrow in his brow. "You can't fucking guilt me into coming out, dude." 

"I hate when you call me that,” Richie responds. It’s petty, but he’s never claimed to be one who takes the moral high ground. “ _Dude. Bro. Man_." 

"What do you want me to call you?” Eddie asks, his upper lip curling in disgust. “ _Baby_? _Sweetie_? _Honey_? Get real." 

" _You_ get real. I tear up every time we fuck,” Richie hisses. He clenches his fists and his heart races, making it hard for him to catch a full breath. “You _know_ what this is for me. You spend all day with your tongue down my throat or my dick in your mouth and I _let you_ because I love you, then you go home and kiss your wife goodnight." Richie exhales and deflates against his pillow, empty. 

"You can't tell me shit about my life when you're sabotaging yours," Eddie spits. "You're running away from your responsibilities, doing _sex work_ , and letting me fuck you when you know I could never-" Eddie rushes to a stop, biting down on his lip. His eyes soften and his mouth morphs from its tight, angry line into a frown.

"It's okay, you can say it.” Richie laughs, something forced and strangled, too uncomfortable to do anything else. "Go ahead. Say you could never love me." 

And Eddie blinks, looks Richie squarely in the eyes and says, solemnly: "...I'm not in love with her either." 

Richie stands up, reaching for his jeans on the floor. "No shit. I think you should go." 

Eddie gets dressed in silence, not looking at Richie as he does. When he leaves, he's wearing Richie's t-shirt under his jacket and a pitiful look on his face.

On his walk to the liquor store, Richie lets himself cry. Back in his apartment, he skips the glass and drinks straight from the bottle, downing the equivalent of three or four shots. Then, rolling with this momentum, he sends Eddie a text.

_sucks that youll use me for sex but wont let me love you_

Three more shots has him angry at the read receipt and lack of response, and another shot has him sending two more texts.

_ive cried more abot you than anthing else in my whle life.. do yiu even care about me ?_

_your an asshole i cant believe yiu wont answer after evrything you put me thru_

The bottle is nearly gone when Richie gives up on the possibility of Eddie responding and turns to Twitter.

 **Richie Tozier** @rtrashmouth

_turns out thres nota big difrence btween fuking a “ straight “ maried guy,, nd slitting ur wrist_

A text from Stan appears on the screen, interrupting his second tweet. 

_You should get off Twitter._

_prbly_

**Richie Tozier** @rtrashmouth

_closet cases r the worst.. i know becaus I was one ,, hating yurself for being a fag is 1 thing.. dont rope evryon else into ur shitt_

Richie's phone vibrates twice, another message from Stan and one from Bev. 

_please tell me your twitter was hacked or something_

_sry im such a pieceof shit ill tryto be nicer t u_

_ur alwats good to ne_

**Richie Tozier** @rtrashmouth

_been sleepin wth my marriedd “ best frend “ aparently hes desprate as me lol_

**Richie Tozier** @rtrashmouth

_was sso close tto killing nyself this year.. but decide todo fetush sex wrk insted.. the things we doto feell haha_

**Richie Tozier** @rtrashmouth

_m sorry nonne of this s funny .. im not very fumny…, im justa sad oerson nd prbly shuldve died when i was 13_

When Richie is taking the miniature, two tiered wedding cake out of his fridge, Mike calls him.

When he's downstairs, sitting in an Uber with the cake in his lap, Bill calls him once and Mike calls him again.

When the Uber driver is circling Eddie's neighborhood, Ben calls him and sends two texts.

_hey, we're all really worried._

_what's going on?_

_nothng im ok : )_

Richie directs all of his focus to the task of keeping the wedding cake upright as he walks through the quiet, dark neighborhood, searching for Eddie's house. In his drunken haze, the already fuzzy memory of its location is even less accessible. By the third block, just as the cake starts to get heavy, he spots Eddie's cute little house at the end of the cul de sac.

There’s an explanation for everything Richie does.

Things are ending rapidly, and he's going with the momentum, fueled by alcohol, the discomfort of numbness and urge to feel _something_ , and the knowledge that he has nothing to lose.

He rings the doorbell, cake teetering in one hand. "Open up. I brought you a gift." 

It's a shame he won't be able to film with it—it was a special request and cost 75 bucks after all. But, this one deserves a better fate than being sat on and thrown in the garbage.

Richie rings the doorbell again, then steps through the bushes and peers into the windows, seeing darkness through the cracks in the curtains. He slaps his hand to the glass. "I know you're home,” he sings, then takes a few steps back, onto the lawn. He grabs a handful of cake, destroying the first tier, and flings it at the house. It smacks against the window and sticks, smearing white frosting, chocolate crumbs, and raspberry filling. 

Somewhere, his ten year old self is at school, wetting toilet paper and throwing it at the restroom wall, cackling in delight.

Humming the wedding march, Richie takes apart the rest of the first tier and decorates Eddie’s windows, effectively ignoring his jumbled thoughts and fighting his loose, clumsy limbs. Distantly, Richie hears the front door slam shut but keeps at it, digging his fingers into the dense cake.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Eddie steps off the porch, the fire in his eyes visible even in the dim glow of the streetlights. Myra follows close behind him, stopping at the edge of the lawn with her night robe pulled tight. 

"You need to go, Richie." Eddie crosses the grass, pointing an angry finger at him. "Now."

Richie looks past him, giving Myra a wave. "Evening, Mrs. Kaspbrak-"

"Don't do this,” Eddie says, his voice low. “You can be upset, I don't give a shit. But don't do this to me. Please."

Behind the anger in Eddie’s eyes, there’s fear, clear as day. Richie knows it well, has been the one to hold his shaking hands until it fades and his breathing evens out. He can’t be a source of comfort for Eddie tonight, and isn’t sure he ever should have been.

“Please,” Eddie repeats, and Richie grins, giving Myra another glance over Eddie’s shoulder. She’s looking past her husband and glaring at Richie, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I brought you a gift,” Richie responds cheerily. “Both of you." 

Eddie blinks at the proffered ‘gift,’ and back up at Richie’s face, his nostrils flaring. "Just go, Rich. We can talk tomorrow, okay?"

If Richie didn’t know better, he’d think the sympathy in Eddie’s eyes was real. If he didn’t know better, he’d take this faux kindness at face value. If he didn’t know any better, he would think that Eddie is looking out for him. But Richie, in a rare moment of clarity can see what this is. Eddie is trying to give him an easy out, trying to get him to leave with the least possible damage. But he underestimates just how determined Richie is to expedite the process of fucking things up. Alcohol only makes him more stubborn and unbearable. And Richie has never been a fun drunk, but he’s always been good at putting on an act. Tonight, he has no reason to pretend. Eddie doesn’t love him. Pretending to be a good person won’t change that.

"But I came all this way,” Richie says, with his best pout. He scoops his hand into the fresh second tier, picking up a serving that’s mostly frosting, and holds it out in front of Eddie’s face. “At least taste it."

Eddie turns his head away from the offer, sighing. “Don’t-”

“Oh, c’mon, Eds! Don’t be a party pooper!” Richie giggles, waves the handful at Eddie again, and proceeds to smush the frosting against Eddie’s closed mouth. “Ah, there you go-”

“What the _fuck_?” Eddie slaps Richie’s hand away, spitting and wiping at his lips, then reaches out and knocks the rest of the cake onto the grass. “Are you fucking insane?”

"Here let me get that for you.” Richie steps forward, takes Eddie by the biceps, and crushes their lips together. He licks messily at the seam of Eddie’s lips, ignoring his muffled protests.

"Get _off_ of me-" Eddie bites down on Richie's lower lip, his teeth slicing into the soft flesh.

Richie winces and lets Eddie go, chuckling. The taste of blood cuts through the sweet vanilla flavor of the frosting. "Hot."

Eddie's eyes are wild, his brow furrowed in a deep frown. "Jesus christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"A lot," Richie answers, sucking at his aching lip. He’s light-headed, his vision unfocused. "You knew that, and you still talked me into bed."

Eddie looks over his shoulder at Myra, who is still standing at the edge of the lawn, looking warily between the two of them. "You should go."

The thing about the desire to self destruct is that it’s an unrelenting force. It will keep applying pressure until he’s made up of nothing but the painstakingly picked over scabs from the wounds caused by carelessness and deliberate manipulation. This is the last scab, still hanging on by a thread of dead skin.

Richie grins and gives Myra another wide wave. "Guess what? I know why your husband doesn't let you touch his dick." 

Myra frowns and Eddie practically growls at him. "Shut up-" 

"Your husband doesn't love you and won't fuck you because he's a-" 

"Shut up!" Eddie shoves Richie, sending him back a few steps. "Shut your fucking mouth! You don't have the right to tell her anything." 

"Oh, so you're gonna tell her?" Richie asks, faux innocent, his voice loud enough for her or any other nosy neighbors to hear. "You're gonna tell her how you beg to choke on my dick? How you jack off while she’s asleep, thinking of me? How we fucked in the bed you share with her? Are you gonna tell her how I feel better than anyone else you’ve ever felt?" 

When Eddie shoves him this time, he puts all of his weight into it. Richie stumbles, and reaches out for Eddie in an attempt to keep his footing. In the scuffle of Richie wrapping his arms around Eddie and Eddie trying to pull away, they trip over each other's feet and fall backwards on the grass. They land hard and Richie coughs, tries to catch his breath. A laugh bubbles up out of his sore throat and he holds Eddie by his collar, pulls him closer, and kisses him again. 

Eddie starts hitting him, swatting at his chest and arms, and calling him an asshole, to which Richie responds with a humble "I know, I know."

"I can't fucking believe you!" Eddie wrings his hands in the front of Richie's shirt and shakes him. "You fucking idiot."

They used to wrestle like this when they were kids, and Eddie was always more invested, feistier and angrier than Richie could ever be, while Richie laughed and secretly reveled in the feeling of Eddie touching him. He’d look up at him and try to commit to memory the feeling of having him so close, his warm breath, the freckles scattered across his nose. He was beautiful then and he's beautiful now, even with an insult on his lips, even in the midst of his fury.

"You just ruined my fucking life!" he shouts, again and again, his voice raw. "You piece of shit, you ruined everything!"

"Yeah, it's _my_ fault," Richie laughs, "not you being a liar and a cheater, right? _You’re_ the shitty husband, not me."

"Fuck you," Eddie spits, then rears his first back and punches Richie in the face. The blow snaps Richie’s head to side and Eddie gasps, flinching as if he’s the one who was hit, but his frown barely falters. 

Pain spreads through Richie’s teeth and crawls up his jaw and cheekbone. The soft skin on the inside of his cheek stings, blood pools under his tongue, and he tries to laugh, but it comes out broken and dry. He looks at Eddie, the tight line of his mouth, his dark eyes, and pale skin bathed in moonlight, and remembers that they aren’t kids anymore. They aren't rolling around in the grass, playfully slapping each other, with a guaranteed reconciliation on the horizon. This might be the most permanent mess Richie has ever made, and he lets it sink in and weigh him down, waiting for the satisfaction to flood him though he knows it’ll be fleeting.

"Sometimes,” Richie says, licking his chapped lips, “when you're on top of me like this, I think about you almost dying.” 

Eddie wrenches himself out of Richie's grasp. “God, Richie, shut up. Stop it-” 

“It just pops into my head,” Richie says. He’s shaking now, his hands trembling against Eddie’s. “I can’t stop it. Even when we’re having sex, I think about almost losing you... You’re fucking me, and I’m thinking about you bleeding to death. And I always wonder...how can I make myself forget that? But, I don’t think I ever can.” His chest tightens and tears prick at the back of his eyes and when he breathes in, it burns like he's inhaling smoke. He looks up at the sky and like that day, his body starts to ache too, a phantom pain that comes with the memory. “I thought that was as bad as things could get.” 

"Stop," Eddie repeats, his voice breaking. Tears well up in his eyes and he grits his teeth, sucking in a breath through his nose. 

"No," Richie breathes, wiping at Eddie's wet cheeks with his thumbs. "No, don't cry."

Eddie doesn't fight it. Instead he moves into the touch, attempting to blink away his tears. Richie props himself up onto his forearms and Eddie doesn't even wait until Richie is up all the way before collapsing into him. He wraps his arms around Richie's waist and chokes on a sob, digging his nails into Richie's back.

"Go back to California," he rasps, burying his face in Richie's neck. "You shouldn't be here." 

"There's nothing there for me anymore." Richie holds him tight and cries, letting the worst of his dormant pain and regret tear through him. "I fucked everything up." 

"There's nothing here for you either."

“You’re here.” 

Eddie lifts his head and looks at his house, at Myra weeping on the porch. “No I’m not.” 

"Come with me. Please," Richie begs, and Eddie sobs, prompting Richie to hold him tighter. "Please. We'll figure it out later. I'll buy plane tickets tonight. We’ll go wherever you want, we’ll do whatever you want." 

"You know I can't do that," Eddie whispers, yet clings to Richie all the same.

"Eddie, I love you," Richie says, as a last resort. As if it matters.

“You have to go.” 

“I love you," he says again, and he's crumbling, cracking right down the middle. "Please-"

“Go.” Eddie pulls out of Richie's embrace and lifts himself to his feet. He turns away without a word or a spare glance and, with Myra close behind him, goes back inside his house.

Richie watches them go, waits for a few hopeful moments, then sits up and waits for the wave of lightheadedness to subside. “Shit,” he mutters and manages to his hands and knees. "Fuck," he says, and pukes on the grass between his hands. Dizzy and nauseous, he rolls onto his back and forces himself to take slow, deep, breaths. 

Everything is unsettlingly still, and the knowledge that this is over has him feeling like his insides have been scraped clean. He closes his eyes, empty and exhausted, and lets himself drift into a heavy sleep. 

Some time later, he wakes up. The sky is still dark, his phone is vibrating incessantly in his pocket, his face hurts, and he’s still drunk. Disappointingly, all the fun parts of being drunk have been soured, leaving embarrassment and an impending headache.

“Hey.”

Richie rolls over, and Eddie is sitting next to him, holding out a bottle of water.

“I’m leaving,” Richie says, accepting the offer. “I promise.”

Eddie looks back at his house, then at the empty street. "Let me give you a ride."

Richie’s headache intensifies on the ride to his apartment, exacerbated by Eddie's stony silence.

Eddie stops the car outside the building and mumbles a halfhearted goodnight, keeping his hands on the wheel.

"I'm sorry," Richie says.

"I know." Eddie keeps his eyes ahead and Richie itches for eye contact.

"I'm-” Richie clears his throat, stares at the side of Eddie's face, at the bags under his eyes, the downturned corners of his lips. “Eds...I’ve already embarrassed myself enough, so this is me coming right out and asking you to move to California with me.” 

Eddie shakes his head, still staring ahead through the windshield, and says quietly, "I'm not suddenly available just because you outed me to my wife."

"You don't want to be here. You don't even love her. You said it yourself." Richie starts to reach for Eddie's hand, but thinks better of it. He sticks to begging instead. He's pathetic sure, but isn't quite ready to grovel yet. “Please, Eds. Come with me. We could be-"

"What you did was really shitty," Eddie says, and finally turns to look at him. It's cold, and feels like another punch in the face, but it's something. 

"And I said I was sorry," Richie says weakly.

"Right, so I'm supposed to forgive you, jump on a plane with you tonight, and pretend everything is normal?"

"It wouldn't be your first time pretending."

The tension leaves Eddie’s shoulders and he drops his hand to the center console, reaching blindly to hook his fingers over Richie’s. He takes a breath and leans in, slowing to a stop as he realizes Richie hasn't budged. It hurts, because Richie isn't good at saying no to Eddie's affection, but there's a more pressing urge that takes priority. 

"Yes or no. Give me a real answer."

Eddie responds with silence, giving Richie the concrete answer he was looking for.

Richie pulls his hand away, turning his watery gaze towards the window. "You’re an asshole." He stops his tears before they start, but his shaky voice betrays him. "I can't blame you for this though, that would be too easy. This is my fuck up. I never should have moved here. So, yeah, you were right." 

"That isn't what I said…" Eddie looks at his lap, picks at his nails. "I like you here."

“You’re pushing me away," Richie says, hating how whiny it sounds.

“It isn’t what I want.” 

“What _do_ you want?” 

Eddie pauses, opening his mouth around a soft sigh. “I want you to stay, but-” 

Richie scoffs, would laugh if his heart weren't sinking. “But, nothing is going to change, right?"

"We-" Eddie darts his eyes up at Richie, just long enough to show the shame in them. "Myra wants to work things out."

It's unfair that anger flares up in Richie, and he isn't too drunk to realize that. Sirens and red flashing lights go off in his head screeching at him: _'for the love of god, Richie, stop while you're ahead_.' But, he's never been one to heed his subconscious warnings.

“You’re fucking unbelievable.” 

"Richie, you can't-," Eddie stutters, focusing his sad gaze on the steering wheel. "I can't...Myra, she's-...that isn't how this works-" 

"Tell me how it works," Richie says, and doesn't wait for a reply. The words tumble out of him, too fast for his head to catch up, petty and coated in vitriol he knows Eddie doesn't deserve. "Actually no, tell me this: When are you going to stop letting everyone walk all over you? I swear you use it as a cover so you never have to say how you really feel. 'Oh no, I can't do that because mommy will be mad, I can't do this because my wife will hate me.' You're fucking 40, hasn't it gotten old by now? I always knew you were a fucking pussy, I just didn’t know it was this bad." 

It's a low blow, scraping the bottom of the barrel for something that will hurt him as much as Richie is hurting. Not only that, but it's a lie. In fact, no one is a bigger pussy than Richie. Every minor inconvenience makes him want to stick his head in an oven, he's whiny and pitiful, and a bigger crybaby than anyone he knows. The worst of it is that he's weak for Eddie— if he had said no that first night, like he should have, they wouldn't be here. If he had confessed when he wanted to, when he wasn't sure whether Eddie would make it out of the hospital alive, things would be different. Maybe not better, but different. 

Eddie frowns, clenches his trembling jaw and starts to cry. Richie thinks his guilt could eat him alive from the inside out.

"That's really nice. Really persuasive," Eddie says, through his tears. He nods his head and swallows, a pinched, miserable half smile on his face. "You came out via twitter three months ago. That makes you an expert on this shit, right? Let me just tell Myra I'm leaving her for you and she'll get her fucking claws out of me and let me go and everything will be perfect and I'll never be afraid of anything again. I never thought of that. Wow, aren't you so fucking smart."

Richie reaches for him, instinctively, and Eddie glares at the offending hand until it falls back into Richie’s lap. "I'm- okay, fuck, listen... I need you, Eddie. I just want you around." 

"You want me to drop my entire life, leave everything I've ever known for you and _your_ needs?" Eddie scrubs at his tears, an even deeper crease in his brow, and motions angrily at Richie. "You want me to follow you to LA so you can parade me around like some kind of fucking prize you picked up from New York? So you can feel better about yourself instead of actually dealing with your shit?"

" _Jesus_ , Eddie, I want you to grow some balls!” Richie shouts, exasperated enough to make him feel insane. “I want you to make a _real_ decision, I want you to tell me if you actually fucking want me or not and stop stringing me along! I want you to do something unsafe for once!" 

“Fuck you, Richie!” Eddie slams his fist on the steering wheel and the horn honks, making Richie jump. He waves around the car and points an accusatory finger in Richie’s direction. "This is the most unsafe fucking thing I've ever done! I'm terrified just sitting in this car with you. You don't want me to take risks, you want me to sacrifice myself for _you_ and you don't know and you wouldn't even care what that means for me because you-... you’re _selfish_ and a bad friend."

After all of the hiding and sneaking around, the desperate ways in which Richie gave himself to Eddie for little to nothing in return, and every instance of him opening up only to be met with silence—or worse, a half acknowledgement and a lazy kiss as if that mends all of Richie’s broken parts— and _Richie_ is the selfish one. 

This time, Richie _does_ laugh. " _I'm_ the bad friend?" 

"Yes!” Eddie chops at the air between them, his eyes wild, still teary. “You don’t give a shit about me or how I feel-" 

"I'm going to fucking lose my mind-" 

"You’ve never asked me _why_ I’m doing this, you’ve never asked me what it’s like to be fucking trapped in this marriage, in this life, in this fucking skin!” 

“I’m sorry!” Richie throws up his hands in defeat. "Fuck, how was I supposed to-" 

“I hate my life,” Eddie goes on, stepping on Richie’s words, his voice strained and frantic. "I hate my job, I hate that my wife makes me feel like a goddamn kid, and I hate that I'm afraid of her. I hate every second of my existence, but I can’t have anything else. I can’t, Richie. This is what I know. Every time I even _think_ of changing my life, I want to throw up. I worry about getting sick, and I worry about _dying_ and I can barely get through the day without a fucking anxiety attack and you don't notice because you don't care. All you do is take from me-" 

"Don’t even- _What_? I'm taking from you?! What the fuck have I taken from you that you weren't begging to give me?" Richie forces a laugh, something abrupt and pained, because he doesn’t he might put his fist through the window. He watches Eddie fight to keep his sobs stuck in his throat, his face going increasingly red, but he can’t stop. His stomach turns with a mix of anger and shame and he spits the words out, lets Eddie feel the poison that’s been eating at him for months. "Yeah, Eddie, it really feels like I'm taking from you when you have your dick in my ass. It really feels like I'm taking from you when I'm listening to you whine about your wife while I'm madly in love with you.”

Eddie slumps in his seat, covers his face with his trembling hands, and falls apart. 

"And you know what, _you’re_ selfish,” Richie says, because apparently he isn’t quite out of the eye of the tornado yet. “You couldn’t be with me alone for a day before using me to cheat on your wife. It's like you _knew_ I loved you. Like you could fucking see it on me and you just pounced because you _knew_ I wouldn’t say no.” 

“I didn’t know, I swear,” Eddie says weakly. He sniffles, clears his throat and says again, “Richie, I swear I didn’t-” 

"Don't lie to me like you lie to her. Look at me,” Richie demands, “and tell me, honestly, that you didn't know why I moved here." 

Eddie takes a slow, deep breath in, wipes his tears, looks at Richie, and says, breathlessly, "I didn't know you _loved_ me." 

Richie unlatches his seatbelt and opens the door, one foot on the curb when Eddie stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey... please don't hurt yourself tonight." 

"Fuck you." Richie shrugs him off, stumbles onto the sidewalk, and slams the door.

He cries in the stairwell on the way up to his floor, more in the hallway, and even more once he’s locked safely in his dark apartment. Then, when he finds himself doubled over in the middle of his living room, he stops. He pulls himself together, goes to the kitchen, and finishes off the measly drops of alcohol he has left.

Then, he searches for his pill stash and finds only two Xanax. Like a pouty, unsatisfied child, he groans, washes them down with orange juice and sits on the couch in the dark with his last pre-rolled joint. The paper is old, almost too brittle to be lit. Beggars can’t be choosers, he thinks, holding it gingerly between his lips anyway. He drags the pad of thumb over the rough wheel of the lighter and touches the tip of the joint to it, inhaling the taste of stale weed. 

The lighter’s flame flickers and sways, curling in the still air. When he touches it to the inside of his wrist, it doesn’t sting enough. His skin reddens in the orange glow and he holds still until it begins to swell, pulling away to press his thumb to the tender mark. Then, he makes a second burn, daring himself to singe the skin a little more, and moves on to an unmarred patch, holding the flame until his skin begins to blister.

He exhales smoke through his nose and sits with the burn, slipping his phone from his pocket. 

There are three missed calls from Mike, two from Bill, and one from Ben. There are eight text messages from Bev, four from Ben, two from Stan, and none from Eddie. As he stares at the bright screen, two more texts from Stan come through.

_Eddie called me._

_I'm getting a flight to NY in four hours. Will be there in the morning. Send me your address._

* * *

Attempting to recover from a months-long breakdown is as unsettling and anxiety-inducing as it is anything else. It feels as though he’s standing just outside of a house, watching himself and the surrounding destruction through the window. Inside, there’s the shell of him, worn-in, familiar, his only means of protection. Outside, there’s an empty, unknown path, boundless opportunity, and all the roles he could fill if he weren’t afraid. The thing is, there’s comfort inside, a method to his madness. Outside it’s almost too still, not a single external force demanding him to make an impulsive decision. For months, he’s been in a liminal space, standing at the threshold with the door not quite closed.

Stan stayed with him for five weeks when he came to New York, annoyingly frank about it being a suicide watch. Richie has always resented being babysat, and at times Stan’s presence made him want to leap out of the window in an act of defiance. He spent most of the time debilitated by guilt, which fucked him up more than anger and mania ever could. He barely ate, slept, or showered but as bad as he felt, and much as he cried, Stan never let him contact Eddie. He even went so far as to take Richie’s phone at night, leaving him picking at his nails, biting at the cuticles and making himself bleed over the thought of Eddie. 

The morning Stan arrived, they had breakfast and he had told Richie, morosely, that Eddie called him crying, asking for help and left it at that. Beyond that initial conversation, they didn't talk about Eddie at all. 

Instead they did puzzles, took morning walks, and had uncomfortably cathartic conversations about how they should make the best out of the fact that they’ll probably struggle for the rest of their lives.

Since Stan left, Richie has been patting himself on the back for the bare minimum. The view of the dim light at the end of the tunnel and the few less recurring nightmares about making Eddie cry could very well be the signs of a slightly improved mental state. Any therapist would be proud.

Richie steps out of the coffee shop, dodging the crowd and escaping the onslaught of blaring holiday music. He tosses his receipt in the bin near the door and takes a sip of his coffee—it's overly sweet, something with a strong peppermint flavor, but it's the simple shit like this that keeps him going these days. Chuckling, he takes another sip. Why would he kill himself if he still has access to shitty peppermint flavored coffee?

At the corner, a couple stops next to him, posturing themselves in a way that Richie knows means they’re about to attempt a conversation. He smiles, gives him a wave, and mutters a quiet Merry Christmas, then takes out his phone to look somewhat busy. 

He’s been back in LA for a month, and almost every time he goes out, someone asks him about his decaying career. The answer is always the same. ‘ _Yes, I’m quitting comedy. No, I don’t want to be famous anymore. Yes, I’m technically unemployed. No, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll figure that out when I don’t want to kill myself anymore.’_

There’s a text from Bev waiting for him, a reminder that she and Ben are calling him a little earlier than usual today. He types a quick response and as he steps off the curb to cross the street, his phone vibrates with a notification. 

Richie slows down in the middle of the crosswalk, staring at Eddie's name on the screen.

 _How are you?_

The months without no contact have been a relief, simply because Richie convinced himself that he knew where they stood. They’d never speak again and that was that. If he had thought, even a _little_ , that Eddie wanted to reach out to him, he would have tortured himself even more with hypothetical situations and daydreams.

A car honks at him and he rushes across the street, typing with one hand. 

_better_

He gets in his car and puts his phone in the glovebox, keeping himself from staring at it during his drive home. In some sort of attempt to delay gratification, he doesn’t look at his phone until he’s in his apartment, half undressed with the heater on. There’s no response, so to give himself something to do, he turns on the lights on his sad, shedding Christmas tree, takes a shower, and watches half of Die Hard. Then he talks to Bev and Ben, neglecting to mention Eddie at all. Afterwards, he sits on the couch and frowns at the book Bill sent him last week and re-reads the same four sentences for thirty minutes, trying to convince himself he hasn’t been waiting hours for Eddie to reply to his text.

He jumps when his phone vibrates, glad no one is around to see how his hands shake as he reads the message.

_I’m in LA._

When Richie wasn’t having nightmares, he’d lie awake, wondering what he’d say to Eddie if Eddie ever wanted to talk to him again. He’d only gotten around to brainstorming apologies, too wary of letting himself dwell in undeserved optimism. He hadn’t even thought of the possibility that they’d be in the same city again. On Christmas fucking Eve of all days.

_why?_

_Visiting. I'm thinking about staying._

_thinking about it?_

_Yeah, there's some stuff I have to figure out first_

_okay_

_Can I see you? Would that be okay?_

Closure is good. Preferred, even. But this doesn't feel like closure. This feels like reopening an old wound.

_sure_

It's close to five when Eddie shows up at Richie's door, wearing a jacket too heavy for a southern California December and a hesitant smile.

"Hey."

The first thing Richie wants to do is hug him the way they used to every time they saw each other, breathing each other in with all the comfort of coming home and all the neediness of searching for something they’d never find.

Richie misses him with such an intense immediacy, he can't speak. It’s overwhelmingly familiar—His scent, his voice, the warmth coming off of him. The uncertain lift of his brow and deep brown eyes.

He lets Eddie step inside, pausing near the door to collect his thoughts and get his breathing under control.

"I like the tree," Eddie says.

"Oh." Richie steps over to the lopsided tree, keeping the cautious distance between them, and adjusts the plastic star at the top. He turns his back to Eddie, heart racing, and starts shifting ornaments around. "It's alright. Just thought I'd bring a little Christmas cheer to my shitty little apartment."

Richie turns to watch Eddie glance around the sparse living room. He hasn't done much to decorate and isn't sure he'll ever get around to it. Something about the space feels temporary, and he's reluctant to make it feel like home.

"It isn't bad."

"Now you're just trying to be nice," Richie says, and cringes as the words leave his mouth. They're too familiar, and Richie knows the two of them aren't there yet. Or, they aren’t there anymore. He swallows the dryness in his throat and motions to the kitchen. "Coffee? I know it's late, but..."

But, he doesn’t keep alcohol in the house anymore. Nothing but a vague promise to take care of himself keeps him from going out and buying it, and even that is a flimsy barrier. He was blackout drunk too weeks ago, dreading spending the holidays alone. The lack of alcohol is a blessing now, because all it’d take is two shots to get him careless enough to drop to his knees. It’s also a curse, because a distraction would be pretty fucking welcome.

"Sure."

Eddie remains standing in the middle of the living room while Richie fiddles with his french press. The coffee isn’t as dark as Eddie usually likes it, and Richie idly thinks about how he never got the chance to perfect it. That, or he’s out of practice. Both of those possibilities make his head spin.

“How is it being back here?” Eddie asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“The same," Richie answers, for the sake of keeping things as light as possible. He hands Eddie his coffee, black with lots of brown sugar, and sits on the couch, waving at the empty space next to him. "You don't have to stand there."

“Right.” Eddie sits on the other end of the couch, running his hand over the microfiber. “This is nice.” 

“Yeah," Richie sighs, mirroring his movement. Their fingers nearly brush on the back of the couch, and he pulls away, chuckling. "I actually bought this one. No weird stains you can only see under a blacklight.” 

A silence settles between them, and Richie shifts in his seat, racking his brain for an easy way to segue into an apology.

Eddie takes a drink from the mug and looks down at the steaming coffee. "...Myra and I are getting a divorce." 

"I figured." Richie winces, and blurts out, "I'm sorry." 

Eddie blinks up at him and says softly, "It isn't your fault." 

"I'm sorry anyway. For everything. I was stupid, it wasn't okay." Richie stops, looks at Eddie sitting eerily still, and asks the question that’s been on his mind for months. "Did she know about us? Before, I mean." 

Eddie shakes his head and puts the mug on the end table, pausing to look for a coaster. "She had suspicions. Even before you." 

"Oh." 

"We tried," Eddie says, something bitter underneath the apparent sadness. "But, she couldn't even look at me anymore...and I couldn't stop thinking about you." 

They go quiet, watching each other. Eddie admission doesn’t give Richie the relief he naively hoped for— the tension in the room multiplies, crowding him in an invisible box. He's afraid to move, knowing that the wrong one could either send him spiraling or send Eddie running.

“I guess that’s what I wanted," he says pathetically, wringing his hands.

Eddie sets his lips in a tight line and levels a steady look at Richie. He's quiet, looking as tense as Richie feels. “Doesn’t feel right though, does it?” 

Richie takes a shaky breath and it gets caught in his chest on the way out. “It’s all wrong.” 

“I’m sorry.” Eddie places his hand on the cushions between them and a question flashes in his eyes. He pauses there though, and Richie holds his breath. "I wish I could go back and do everything differently.” 

In a wary invitation, Richie drops his hand limply next to Eddie's and Eddie takes it. He holds it with a tenderness that feels forced paired with the urgency in his eyes. Richie breathes in and exhales wetly, his vision going misty with tears. 

Exhaustion weighs on him immediately, spurred on by the opposing emotions swirling inside of him. There’s guilt, for not understanding Eddie more during the times Eddie needed him the most, crawling up his spine. Right alongside the guilt, there's annoyance at himself for folding so easily, for squeezing Eddie's hand with the thinly veiled fear that he’ll slip away. Underneath it all, there's frustration at Eddie and this dangerous game he’s playing, all balled up in his gut and growing by the second. 

“This isn’t fair to me.” 

“I know," Eddie whispers. "I know that-" 

"Then why are you doing it?" Richie asks, his voice thick. He can't do this again. Wading through Eddie's unclear intentions for a scrap of clarity and stability almost killed him. He won't make it this time. "Why are you fucking with me like this again?" 

"I wanted to see you…" 

Richie tugs his hand away, lifts his glasses to wipe his eyes. "Seeing you was a mistake, I think," he says, and the way Eddie's face falls makes him want to eat the words.

"I don't have anyone else to talk to,” Eddie says, tucking his hands into his lap and hunching his shoulders, making himself smaller.

"Yes you do,” Richie searches Eddie’s eyes, hoping he doesn’t actually believe that _Richie_ is the best possible person to talk to. “Have you called anyone else? Bill? Mike? Anyone?” 

Eddie stares at his hands, going still again. “They don’t know me. I’m a stranger to them.” 

"And whose fault is that?" Richie asks sourly, and opens his mouth to backtrack.

"I'm embarrassed,” Eddie says, keeping his gaze low. “To be like this and to be where I am. Mentally, I mean… I'm embarrassed to have not changed at all. I don't want to- I didn't want to put that on them." 

They ask about Eddie from time to time, toeing the line between concern and curiosity. Richie can't even begin to explain to Eddie how much they love him. 

“They’d do anything for you.” 

Eddie finally lifts his head, chewing the inside of his cheek. “And you wouldn’t?” 

It knocks the wind right out of Richie, leaving him gasping and his voice thin. “This isn’t fair.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears spring to Eddie's eyes, and he rubs at them with his knuckles, trying to train his expression. “I'm so fucking sorry." 

Richie keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t say it’s okay, because it isn’t. Still, he lets Eddie take his hand and move in closer. He wraps his arms around Eddie and holds him, letting him cry. "I'm sorry," Eddie repeats, more solemnly than before, and looks up at him. Then, in a tragic slow dance that Eddie leads and Richie tentatively follows, their lips come together in a chaste kiss. Richie cups the nape of Eddie’s neck because there's no use pretending to have restraint when he knows they're both starving for it. Eddie submits for a moment, shivering when Richie’s tongue chases after his, and Richie sighs against his mouth, barely getting a taste before Eddie pulls away and apologizes again. 

“It’s okay.” Richie is knee-deep again, rapidly sinking. He has scolded himself for wanting this, knowing it would be the equivalent of filling his lungs with water. But now that he's here, he'll happily drown in it. "Fuck, I missed you so much.”

Eddie sighs, keeps their foreheads touching. "This is- we shouldn't. This isn't a good idea.” 

"Maybe not," Richie says, wiping a stray tear from the corner of Eddie's eye. Eddie moves away from the touch, and Richie's heart breaks. “But I'm not known for making great decisions. Neither are you." 

"Rich," Eddie says, so soft that it feels like a caress on Richie's cheek. "I'm not ready for a relationship."

Richie should be more ashamed at how hopeful he feels, but he knows that keeping the question locked away is useless. "Is that what you want...with me?"

"I don't know." 

And because there’s truly nothing left to lose and possibly nothing left to gain, Richie says, “I’m still in love with you.” 

Eddie pauses, looking into Richie’s eyes for a long moment. "I can't love you," he mutters. "I can't love anyone." 

A deep ache joins the shame building in Richie’s chest, twisting and tugging down the center of him, heavy and relentless. "I don't believe that." 

Eddie pulls away with another apology on his lips, putting distance between them that feels like a death sentence for them, their chance at anything resembling a relationship, and the hold they have on each other. 

“Please, Eddie," Richie says, unsure what he's even asking for. _Please don't leave, please don't fuck with me, please don't sell yourself short._

Eddie deflates in his seat and closes his eyes, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Richie follows suit, finally allowing a sob to rip through him. It's downright silly for him to be crying now, because he knew this would happen. He had buried all of his hope in favor of pessimism dressed as realism, yet here he is bawling like a spurned lover as if he had different expectations. The house in the suburbs. The wedding photos. The bed they come back to every night, without fail. It could never be them.

“I’m sorry, Richie. This is- I don’t know what to say.” Eddie clenches his fists, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. “I don’t know what to do. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.” 

This isn’t closure, this is the act of taking apart Richie's freshly stitched seams.

“I’ll do whatever you want, Richie. I'll fuck off and never talk to you again if that'll make things easier for you.” 

This is desperation, disguised as devotion. 

“What do you want? Just tell me.” 

This is the product of two people lost and afraid, reaching for each other in the dark. 

“Richie.” 

"I want you,” Richie cries. “That's all." 

"I know." Misery tangles with Eddie's words, choking him up. “But I'm not really anything to be had. I can’t even- it’s hard to even look at myself. I hate it- I hate being like this." 

Eddie gets to his feet, takes three steps and stops in the middle of the room, trembling. Richie follows and wraps Eddie up in his arms because that’s what he’s good at, simultaneously wanting to shield him and selfishly keep him near. Richie kisses his slack mouth, tasting his tears, begging silently. _Love me, love me, love me._

"Please,” he begs, against Eddie’s wet cheek. “I just want you to be mine." 

Richie glances over Eddie’s shoulder at the Christmas tree. Against the backdrop of the dark window and night sky, the lights flicker and blur around the edges. Outside, there’s faint, austerely cheery holiday music playing, drifting up three stories to find its way into the quiet living room where two people attempt to approximate love and genuine happiness.

They might never be what Richie wants, the image of a perfect couple straight out of his delusional daydreams, and he isn’t worthy of giving any sort of all-or-nothing ultimatum. But maybe, he could convince Eddie to allow them to be _something._ Richie clings to him and Eddie fights against it for a moment, but ultimately he stays. That just might be enough.

"I can't belong to anyone,” Eddie whispers. He goes pliant in Richie's embrace and tucks his face in the crook of Richie’s neck, hiding, because that’s what he’s good at. “I don't even belong to myself."

**Author's Note:**

> Songs:
> 
> Fool of Me- Meshell Ndegeocello  
> Fool That I Am- Etta James  
> Hood- Perfume Genius  
> Fine Line- Harry Styles  
> Love Ridden- Fiona Apple
> 
> **FULL TRIGGER LIST** : This story contains lots of suicidal ideation from Richie's POV, but he or no other characters actually attempt to take their own life. Along with internalized homophobia, there are a few instances of homophobic language. There are also brief sexual situations that may be perceived as dub con and one scene featuring brief auto erotic asphyxiation. In the penultimate scene, a character is forcibly outed as gay and there is one instance of physical violence.
> 
> Thanks for reading, follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/curiousair), perhaps?


End file.
